Zachem Ya
by TwistedGoth
Summary: AU Brothers do everything for each other. When Ludwig sacrifices the greatest thing he has, his freedom, Gilbert swears to get him back. There is one obstacle: a Russian general, whose interest in Ludwig goes far beyond that of a captor. But Gilbert doesn't know that in Siberia, lies and deceit are everyday occurrences, and it's the ones that hurt you that love you the most. RusGer
1. Prologue

**A/N : **Updated the warning section since I know what's gonna happen now (mostly).

**Warnings!** : AU. Human characters. Set in 1960s Eastern Bloc. Violence, language, **insanity**, gloomy themes, **Stockholm Syndrome**, character death, psychological manipulation/torture, etc. Happy ending is **UNLIKELY**. Depending on whose side you're on, I suppose...

**Pairings** : Russia x Germany, mentions of Austria x Hungary, Prussia x Lithuania later on. Other characters featured are Prussia, Austria, and Lithuania, and also some Hungary, Belarus, Ukraine, Estonia, Latvia, and America. As always, Hungary goes by her proper Hungarian name (Erzsébet, not Elizabeta).

...did I mention everyone in this is fuckin' crazy? Ok.

Enjoy, and please review if you have a spare second. Thanks for reading, guys!

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><p><strong><span>ZACHEM YA<span>**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Cкажи, зачем я жду звонка?

Зачем немые облака плывут ко мне издалека и тают?

Зачем любовь коснулась нас?

Зачем я плачу в первый раз?

Зачем хочу тебя сейчас?

не знаю...

The construction began in 1961.

It was early on a Sunday morning when the border between East and West Germany was officially closed. All friendly and familiar visits came to a grinding halt; only officials and diplomats could squeeze their way through the blockade, and the police were unmoving in their orders.

The first foundation blocks were laid on August 17th. Military personnel surrounded the perimeters with high-powered rifles and barking dogs that they held on leashes, and kept the Easterners at bay. The Westerners stood silently on the other side, watching their counterparts being slowly and deliberately shielded from view.

They came every day.

It wasn't so bad at first. Just a long, impenetrable stretch of the worst-looking barbed wire they had ever seen. The towers were already going up, and the riflemen had orders to shoot dead anyone who crossed into the moderately marked no-man's land. There were no vociferous protests; the Soviet-backed guards were not the ones that were to be crossed or harassed. The Westerners could only watch their fellow Germans in concern, and the Easterners could only watch the fence growing longer with quiet resignation.

Still, there was hope in seeing.

The wire got worse in 1962.

The guards were doubled in number, and the no-man's land was extended. The Easterners could barely distinguish the faces of known Westerners, but, at least, they _were _still visible.

Gilbert and Ludwig came every day.

Gilbert, prior to the birth of the fence, had been studying on the American side of Berlin in the field of criminal justice, a course that had always held a great interest for him, half of him loving the rush of bringing in the bad guys, and the other half having a secret desire to perhaps _be _a bad guy. He was certainly a risk-taker, maybe dangerously so, but even he stood in complete silence in the dominating presence of this wire. He could no longer go to school. The border shut down _everything_. Including all jobs and studies.

For all it mattered. He'd ditched most of the time and had been flunking nearly every class when the border had closed.

He was trapped here.

Like a mouse.

Without classes and without hope, he had joined an underground band of rebels, unbeknownst to the Westerner that he came here to watch every day.

Ludwig was the tall, handsome, bright young man that Gilbert had the _honor_ to call 'brother'. Even if he really wasn't. Not by blood. No; by something stronger.

Ludwig.

Everything he had _ever_ done had been for Ludwig. Ludwig represented the best of his life. Really the only good thing he'd ever known. The only saving grace.

Ludwig was everything.

Ludwig, his little brother.

Everything.

How unfair, that those old sons of bitches high up in the government hadn't cared how much it _hurt_, to see someone you loved being walled off across the way. To see, but not be able to touch.

Ludwig just stood there, across the wire, back against a building and arms across his chest, and watched.

And, oh God, how Gilbert missed him.

He missed everything about Ludwig. His deep voice, his calm attitude, his patience, his pale hair, his paler eyes, his even paler skin, his stoicism, the feel of his hands, and Christ almighty, he even missed the way Ludwig used to berate and chastise him.

He couldn't touch Ludwig anymore.

It wasn't fair.

Ludwig took this horrible oppression as he always took things, with calm grace and dignity, and just stood there across the wire, and never said a word. He wouldn't react as Gilbert did, by fighting back, and would only watch things unfold as they would.

As far as obedient Ludwig was concerned, rules were rules.

No matter how cruel.

But Ludwig was so _patient_—he could have waited until the end of the earth for all of this to be resolved and for that wire to be torn down, but Gilbert couldn't.

He wanted out. Now.

There was no passing.

Not now.

He'd missed his great opportunity, when the wire had been the shortest and lightly guarded. He could've jumped. He hadn't. He didn't know _why_. And so now he was stuck in limbo, lingering in the shadows and watching the world zoom by without him.

Watching Ludwig was really the only reminder that he was still part of life.

Because otherwise, he felt pretty damn dead.

Ludwig's hair gleamed in the sunlight, like a lighthouse for the weary soul.

They always appeared at high noon, always at the same spot. Gilbert sat cross-legged on the hood of an abandoned car that overlooked the construction zone, and Ludwig stood rigidly against the wall of a store front. At the beginning, they had sometimes had difficulty finding each other through the mass of people, but now...

The crowds were gone. Only a few stragglers like themselves remained. All the rest were either too frightened of the guards, or too heart-broken at the sight.

Gilbert's heart was too hard to break, and Ludwig was frightened of nothing.

So they stayed.

They sat in silence until they were just too tired to carry on, sometimes before dark, sometimes after. They kept only constant eye contact, deep crimson meeting pale blue, but they never tried to speak. They were too far away from each other to even read lips, let alone hear.

The stillness of the afternoon was broken only by the sounds of construction, the barking of the dogs, and sometimes the whirring of a Russian-made tank.

People talking.

Gilbert regretted now that he had not just stayed on the West side, as Ludwig had begged him to so many times. His pride had done him in.

That last day in the West...

Those words that had been exchanged. Some stupid fight. He always started a fight. He had heard the rumors about a wall, of course he had, but he hadn't ever thought it would really _happen_.

And Ludwig had crossed his arms and turned his back as Gilbert tried to keep on arguing, and he had gone back home feeling so angry and so hurt, and when Ludwig had called him the next day (that long forgotten Saturday), begging him to come back because something was going to happen, he had hung up the phone, sat down, and stayed stubbornly put.

His pride cost him dearly.

But it was too late now, and all they could do was to keep their constant vigil, so that Ludwig would know that Gilbert was alive and well, and so that Gilbert would know that Ludwig had not forgotten him. He'd die if Ludwig ever forgot him. Ludwig was all he lived for.

They came every day.

In '63, some foolhardy, desperate Easterner thought he could break through the barricade. The young idiot stole (somehow) a Russian armored carrier and crashed it straight through the wire. It worked; he was shot, granted, but the Western police saved him from demise. He was, undoubtedly, living in comfort now on the Americanized side.

Lucky, foolhardy bastard. It had consequences for the others left behind.

In '65, the concrete blocks came in. They started to stack them, and Gilbert realized with a pang that every day, his view of Ludwig was becoming increasingly compromised.

In two weeks, only their heads were visible.

The last days dragged out the longest, and when Ludwig had to stand on his toes just to meet Gilbert's gaze, they forgot all hunger and exhaustion and stayed out until the sun rose the next morning.

The last time.

The next day, Gilbert came out, and felt the threatening sting of tears in his eyes.

He could not see Ludwig.

It was just too tall, and even when he stood straight up on the car, it was to no avail. And he feared to climb higher, as the guard's towers were higher too. They might have shot him if he started to look too suspicious.

He was not afraid of death, never had been, but he _was _afraid of leaving Ludwig behind.

Ludwig was so vulnerable.

No...

_He _was vulnerable, no matter how much he denied it, and he was afraid to die because if he _did_, then he would never see Ludwig again, and he couldn't bear the thought.

Ludwig.

He did not believe in heaven or hell. He did not believe in God. When he was gone, he was gone for good, and so he could not leave this world until he had had his fill. He couldn't leave Ludwig.

Ludwig was everything.

For now, he would stay back, accept the fact that he had temporarily lost the only family he had, and help the rebels the best he could.

Talking to Ludwig on the phone just...

Wasn't enough. He wanted him back.

Days passed.

He tried to keep his head high, even as he found himself staring at the wall and wondering if Ludwig was doing the same.

A week later, he awoke in his tiny, bland apartment, and when he sat up in bed, a strange sound caught his attention immediately.

The sound of silence.

There were no longer the sounds of the construction workers shouting orders, the hum of the crane, or the ferocity of the jackhammer.

Just silence.

He knew what it meant.

Leaning forward on his crumbled bed sheets, Gilbert held his head in his hands, and gave a heavy sigh of begrudging acceptance.

The wall was complete.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"I can't take it here anymore."

There was a short silence, and then, above the soft, crackling static of a vacant radio station came a whispered, "I know."

Rumbling from above. Dust in the light.

"I understand, I really do."

The voice came from a short, slight woman, dressed in a long blouse and a skirt that was several sizes too big, held up at the center of her waist with a woven belt. She watched Gilbert with anxious emerald eyes, and reached up, running her hand through brown waves in utter exasperation.

"It's wearing everyone down."

Gilbert didn't immediately respond, staring blankly at the wall ahead, lost in his own world.

Ludwig.

"There still might be a way to get out. Don't give up yet. Roderich has been mussing up to one of the GDR generals. Maybe he can push again for another visa..." She furrowed her brow at his silence, and added, "Are you listening? Gilbert?"

He was not, resting his back against the table as he chewed his thumbnail furiously, messy, uncombed silver hair falling into his eyes.

He missed Ludwig.

Dropping her head and groaning in frustration, she muttered bitterly, "I _hate _inactive listeners," and fell against the wall, crossing her arms above her chest.

The room they currently resided in was a small, dimly lit, and exceedingly dingy safe room; in other words, a hideout. It wasn't cozy, not in any sense, but it was secret from the _Stasi_, and that was what really mattered. It was underground, the basement of a factory that had been abandoned for many years. It was underneath the railroad tracks, and every time a train passed from above the entire room shook as though in an earthquake, knocking debris from the ceiling and making the hanging lamp swing to and fro.

The air was dusty.

The building had been under use from the _Unternehmen Reisebüro _for several years now, and they had yet to be discovered, in a small part to cleverness, and in a great part to fantastical luck. It was a rebel student group, joining members of both East and West universities in creating a passage for escapees into the West. They had been extremely successful in the earlier years, but it was becoming more and more difficult to cross the border, and now they mostly laid in wait, plotting impossible plots and making ever-newer maps of the most obscure roads through the city.

Gilbert was here as a member.

He could have gotten out years ago, through the tunnels or sewers, or with fake papers, but every time he had called Ludwig to hint vaguely at his plans, the other had quickly and urgently talked him out of it.

It was 'too dangerous,' Ludwig had said. It _was_, now more than ever. He should have just ignored Ludwig's concern and darted across when he had had the chance.

Too late.

Now he merely lingered here, dreaming of freedom. Or, at least, the opportunity to fight back.

Which was why he was waiting so patiently, expecting...

But sometimes the life of the rebel could be a lonely one, and he had been only too happy to oblige when Erzsébet had asked so earnestly to come along with him, for once reason or another. Normally, he would have refused the company of a woman, finding them too delicate and weepy for his liking, but Erzsébet was probably more intimidating to a passerby than _he _was.

She was an escapee of her own, in a sense. She had tried unsuccessfully to cross the Hungarian border on numerous occasions, finally succeeding when she had met Roderich, the handsome Austrian ambassador, who, in a fit of passion and perhaps chivalry, had married her and sent for an expedited marriage visa.

A visa was just as good as any red-blooded run.

Now, she traveled with Roderich on his many visits to both Germanies, keeping watch over Ludwig in the West and Gilbert in the East, and sometimes whispering favors for Gilbert in Roderich's ear.

Even though Roderich did not care for Gilbert. Never had.

Erzsébet was brave, fearless and quick-witted, ready to offer safety for a friend, motherly and kind, and-

"Hey! Someone's here!"

She fell back into a corner, but he had no fear, knowing full well that it was just another member of the underground. Bringing supplies, no doubt.

The door burst open, but he kept his eyes firmly locked with those of Erzsébet, and said, strangely, "You need to do something for me." She could only nod, as a heavily-clothed man barged down the stairs, holding a box tightly to his chest. "Go back to the other side, and find Ludwig. Tell him...to wait two days, and then go over to where we used to watch each other. Tell him to wait for me. And I'll meet him there."

The box fell to the floor with a dull thud, and they exchanged curt handshakes, and when the man left Erzsébet turned back to Gilbert, asking apprehensively, "What are you planning, Gilbert?"

He did not answer, kneeling to the floor and cutting the box open with a knife. She looked inside, over his shoulder, and he could hear her gasp aloud when she saw the guns and the grenades.

"Gilbert?"

He took a grenade, gingerly, and tucked it into his pocket.

"I'm going to blow up a _Stasi _office," he said, suddenly, "and when they're distracted, I'm going to see Ludwig."

A horrible silence.

Erzsébet shifted her weight anxiously, and then she could contain herself no longer.

"But, Gilbert," she pleaded, loudly, "There's no way you'll get close enough there to do anything, and even if you do! What then? They'll catch you before you can get far enough away! They'll kill you! This doesn't make any sense! Just! Let me speak to Roderich again, and see if he can get the visa this time!"

"He's tried three times already," he replied, coolly, putting two hand-guns under his coat and one in each boot. "I don't just want to get out; I want to get a little even while I do it."

"_Gilbert_!"

"Go and do what I say. Tell Ludwig. Two days. Don't look for me, I won't be home."

With that, fully-armed and confident, he strode straight past her, ignoring her pleas for rationality...

"How can you see Ludwig if you're _dead_?"

He was _sick _of rationality...

He had promised Ludwig, when he was a child, that they would _always_ be together.

Forever.

He would not break that promise.

As he slammed the door behind him, he glimpsed Erzsébet sinking onto the stairs, holding her head in her hands as she moaned, "You're so stupid."

It was too late for him. She couldn't help him anymore.

He missed Ludwig.

Together wasn't together across a wall.

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><p>While the other side of the wall may have been freer, the atmosphere and attitude was certainly just as dreary. It was hard to keep high-spirits when your fellow countrymen were being oppressed just yards away, their only crime being that they just happened to live in the East.<p>

How unfair.

Ludwig's spirits were getting lower and lower every day. And that was coming from a man that had never really had high spirits to begin with.

He couldn't see Gilbert. Talking on the phone just wasn't the same. Gilbert's voice never _changed_; always confident and charismatic and aggravatingly self-confident. Without seeing his eyes and his face, how could Ludwig really know that Gilbert was as safe and sound as he said he was? How could he know if his brother was depressed, or frightened?

If Gilbert was drinking himself to death?

He couldn't.

The not knowing was the worst of it.

He was falling into a great black hole. He'd always had a penchant for becoming depressed rather easily, but it had been easier to brush it off when Gilbert had been there beside of him, ready to ruffle his hair and throw a loving arm around his shoulder.

Everyone was worried for him.

He didn't care. He missed Gilbert. Dumb Gilbert, so reckless and volatile. Who knew what he was up to?

The not knowing was the _worst_.

Now, he sat slouched at his desk, one arm holding up his head as he held his pen in his mouth absently, neglected schools books beneath him.

Gilbert had probably started drinking harder than ever. Probably back on the pills, too.

Staring vacantly out the window, lost out in space, he failed to hear the door to his room creak open. Lately, alertness had not been his strong point, and he jumped out of his seat in a shameful manner when a strong, warm arm wrapped itself suddenly around his neck mercilessly.

"Hey! More study, less sleepy! That thing's not gonna write itself, ya know!"

That voice.

He relaxed immediately, and sighed, falling back down into his seat wearily.

"Thanks," he replied, beleaguered, and his obnoxious 'roommate' (of sorts) bent down, arm still in its choke-hold position, observing his half-complete essay with a snide smile.

"What's _that_? Ha! I've written better things in my sleep!"

And maybe he actually had, Ludwig thought bitterly, because Alfred would _have _to be asleep to write anything at all. How this insufferable, spoiled, loud-mouthed, all-American brat had ever even gotten into the university in the first place...

"Careful!" he managed to hiss, as Alfred's arm tried very hard to strangle the life out of him, "Or else you'll have to find someone else to write this shit for you."

The arm released.

"Whoa! Threats, on such a fine day? What would you do with yourself if you couldn't write my essays for me?"

Ludwig tapped the pen on the desk, and then said, curtly, "Well. I guess I could have a _life_. Like normal people."

Alfred, clapping him on the back forcefully, cried, "_Hey_! If you don't wanna do my homework for me anymore, that's cool, but don't sit here and try to bullshit me about a social life you don't have."

Ouch.

"Anyway, you can't stop! You're my secret weapon! My grades are way better now because of you, you know," Alfred continued, quite enthusiastically, and he threw himself down on Ludwig's bed, arms resting behind his head. "The teachers just don't get it! Ha! Guess _I'm_ the smart one in class now."

"Every dog must have his day," Ludwig muttered, and sighed, slumping forward again as his mood dampened.

Even with Alfred around, the same old thing just kept popping into his head.

Gilbert.

Alfred didn't miss it, and chirped, easily, "Ahh, he's _fine_. Trust me."

Trust. He trusted Alfred. He _did_. And he appreciated the effort, but it wasn't really helping.

Although, he couldn't help but admit, he was grateful that he was not alone. He would have gone crazy by now. Alfred _was _obnoxious, and loud, and annoying, and self-satisfied and egotistical and a pain in the ass, but at present he was the only thing keeping Ludwig sane. And the words 'Alfred' and 'sane' were not two words he had _ever_ expected to meet in a sentence, except, presumably, 'Alfred is making me less and less sane with every passing second'.

Strange, but true.

Then again, his and Alfred's entire relationship could probably be summed up by a simple 'strange'.

They had met at the university. Well. Actually, outside of it.

He'd spent so many years standing out there in front of the grand building, watching students flow in and out, staring up at the stone columns and the arches with his hands in his pockets. Wanting desperately to walk in, but knowing it wouldn't do him any good.

So many days spent just staring. Daydreaming. People walked by him, fast and blurry, as he stood still and just watched.

_Years_, and no one had ever spared him a glance. No one had ever stopped to say, 'Hello'.

Until Alfred.

He remembered clearly that day.

Cloudy. The first day of the semester. Alfred's first day there.

It had been four years since he'd stood out there in front of that building, and suddenly, out of the blue, a messy-haired, bespectacled young man had cast a shadow over him. Ludwig had come out of his daydream long enough to see him lean forward, amicable blue eyes lit up by the sun, and ask, in choppy German, 'Say, you lost?'

Ludwig had only stared at him then, too stunned to move, and the young man had pressed on, casting a thumb over his shoulder as he added, 'I'm new too, but I can show ya around, I think! I'll try, anyway.'

It had been with a great sense of melancholy that Ludwig had finally shaken his head, and said, 'I don't go here. Thanks, though.'

He'd turned on his heel and walked off, and as he went he could feel the man's eyes upon him. He hadn't gone back for a few days after that.

Old habits die hard though, and it had been a week or so before he had found himself wandering around outside the university again. He'd never had any intentions of bumping into that man again. It had happened all the same.

He'd been staring up, like he always did, wondering how it felt to hold books like that and have something _more_ to look forward to, and suddenly that shadow was over him again. That oddly unforgettable voice.

'Man! For someone who doesn't go here, you sure do come around a lot.'

No one had ever spoken to him, let alone remembered him. Maybe it was just because Gilbert was gone and he had been lonely. Maybe. Whatever the reason, when the man had extended a hand and said, 'I'm Alfred!,' Ludwig had accepted it, and tried to smile.

'Ludwig.'

'So, Ludwig! You just like standin' outside of schools and watchin' people walk or are you lookin' for a girl, 'cause I know a few pretty ones!'

...right.

Embarrassing questions aside, Ludwig would never forget that day. The first day he had ever made a friend in his life. As it turned out, he and Alfred got on quite well. They had learned more and more about each other with every passing day.

Somehow, they had fit together well.

Ludwig could stand Alfred's occasional bouts of complete and inexcusable American-ness (for lack of any other possible description), and Alfred seemed immune to Ludwig's sometimes sharp tongue and dismal moods. The more they had gotten to know each other, the more Alfred grew on him, and when the blond Yank had proposed getting a flat and splitting the rent, it had sounded alright.

He was tired of being alone.

Gilbert was gone.

But Alfred had been there.

He learned that Alfred was the only son of an American fighter pilot, who had flown spitfires over Germany when the war was at its peak. He had grown up hearing that Germany was the home of the devil, and, when he was eighteen, he had decided to cross the ocean and find out for himself.

'I came during Oktoberfest,' he joked sometimes, 'and I never went back!'

Ludwig told Alfred things he would never have told anyone. Not even Roderich and Erzsébet. He talked about Gilbert, and his life. Or what he remembered of it, anyway.

Alfred knew well their situation, from years of chatter and seeing Ludwig talking to Gilbert on the phone with that old look of depression on his face, and he tried to alleviate some of the pain with his own brand of optimism.

'Well, look on the bright side! If Gilbert _does _kick the bucket, you'll always be able to say, 'my brother said 'better dead than Red,'' and all the chicks will think you're hot shit!'

Well, that was one way of looking at it. He knew that Alfred meant well, but...

It just wasn't enough. It wasn't ever _enough_.

He wanted Gilbert to be here in the West, where he could see him and touch him and be absolutely certain that everything was going to be alright.

He wanted Gilbert back. They should have been together. Gilbert had promised.

His pen tapped the table. Alfred's essay was forgotten.

"Ludwig," Alfred suddenly called, and Ludwig looked over his shoulder lethargically to see that Alfred had pulled himself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. "Hey. Listen, I've been thinkin'..."

Ha. Didn't hear _that_ often.

"Why don't we just get some passports and go over there for a while? I mean, I know we can't bring him back with us, but visiting is better than nothing, right? I know you said that it could be dangerous, but so what? We're grown men, we can handle anything they throw at us."

Oh, Alfred.

Impossible. He didn't have a passport. He didn't have an I.D.

Nothing.

Sometimes, he wondered if Alfred's mind was just that slippery, or if he just said things that came to mind to make Ludwig feel better. Maybe it didn't matter. Because Ludwig felt himself smiling anyway, at Alfred's constant attempt to lift his mood.

Alfred was a good friend.

Ludwig meant to speak, but before he could open his mouth to reply, the door to his room burst open again, and a woman barged in.

She stopped there in the doorframe, looking a little hassled and a little _weird_, and they gawked at her in alarm.

"Yo, you really gotta start lockin' this house _up_, bro," Alfred murmured, covering his chest with his arms as though abashed at Erzsébet's sudden intrusion.

Women weren't exactly a common sight around here.

"Indeed," Ludwig concurred, and Erzsébet, rolling her eyes and crinkling her nose, stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

"Men are such _idiots_," she stated in exasperation, slapping Alfred's hand away as he reached out to tug annoyingly at her unkempt hair. Smoothing down her dress, she looked over and caught Ludwig's gaze in her own, and she said, lowly, "We have to talk. It's about Gilbert."

The air changed. How dismal the mention of Gilbert's name could make things.

Immediately, Alfred's hands fell into his lap, his face scrunching up in a rare moment of seriousness.

Ludwig's heart started to race.

Cold sweat.

Oh. Dumb Gilbert. What had he done now?

"Has something happened?" he finally asked, when she made no move to continue, his cool voice masking his anxiety.

Her hands twisted in the folds of her skirt.

"Not yet, but it might."

"What's happened?"

She hesitated, uncertain, but finally sat down beside of Alfred, opened her mouth, and told them everything.

She had no worries about speaking such sensitive information in front of Alfred; he had a big mouth, sure, but he would never betray a friend's confidence. Not intentionally, at any rate.

She told them of Gilbert's increasingly reckless behavior, his declining patience and sanity, his _arrogance_, and his foolish plan for escape in his desperation to be reunited.

With every word, Ludwig could feel his face become more pallid. Like the life had literally drained right out of him.

He couldn't _believe_ it; Gilbert had wanted to do it so many times before, but he had been talked out of it so easily! All Ludwig had had to do was say, 'no way, it's too risky!' and Gilbert backed off.

And those plans surely had not been so suicidal.

Dumb, dumb Gilbert.

What had he done?

He fell back in his chair, dizzy and sick and feeling a horrible burn of guilt rising in his chest.

This was his fault.

If he had tried harder to get Gilbert to stay on this side before the border had closed. If he had been less severe in his repression of the earlier attempts. Maybe if he had just _called_ more often, just to talk and reassure Gilbert that everything would be back to normal soon...

Just to wait. Just to be _patient_.

It was his fault.

Burying his face in his hands, he shook his head, and gave a great moan.

Erzsébet saw his distress, and, like Alfred, tried to help. "I'll try to stop him, as best I can. Roderich can always find reasons to stay in Berlin, so I'll go over, and let you know if I can find him, but... If you don't hear from me, and if he's not on this side in two or three days..."

She trailed off, and the unspoken outcome was stifling.

'...then don't expect to ever see him again.'

Gilbert.

It was _his_ fault.

"I'll go with you," he said, immediately, and leapt to his feet, but she shook her head, reminding him quite brutally of the impossibility.

"How's that? Trying to get you over there is just as hard as trying to get _him_ out."

Her look was a little stern, and Ludwig fell still, and bowed his head, defeated.

Helplessness. A horrible feeling.

She was right.

There was nothing more he could do; Gilbert's fate was beyond his control, resting solely on Erzsébet's slim chance of tracking him down.

He fell back down into his chair, and stared at the floor.

But he had a friend here.

"I'll help you!" Alfred suddenly cried, and he leapt to his feet to take Ludwig's place.

What?

Ludwig looked up at him, and sometimes, it surprised him still. The look that Alfred got in his eyes when he was passionate about something. When he wanted to help. Brow low and eyes wide, shoulders braced and bristling from head to toe, half-smiling with breathless earnestness.

Alfred's fearlessness.

He supposed it was the mark of a daredevil.

As they stared at him, Alfred shook his fist enthusiastically in the air, adding, "I bet they'll let _me_ through! Hey! I'm just a dumb American tourist, right?" For it all, he seemed confident, and looked at each of them in turn, seeking their approval.

He wanted to help. And Ludwig kept silent, torn between the safety of his friend and the safety of his brother.

"Actually," Erzsébet finally began, thoughtfully, "Maybe that's not a bad idea."

...well, that was something Alfred didn't hear very often.

"Of course it's not," Alfred said, resting his hands on his hips. "I'll help you hunt him down! Besides, you'll need some muscle to call him off if you really do find him."

That was true. Gilbert, stubborn son of a bitch, was strong.

"Well..."

It wasn't much of a plan, they all knew it, but... It was the only chance they had. What else could they do?

"Let's get going then."

As they moved toward the door, just like that, Alfred turned back, and caught Ludwig's eye.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little serious, "I'll find him. I promise."

Ludwig nodded. He trusted Alfred.

"Be quick. Be careful."

The door shut, and they were gone. Once again, Ludwig was forced to remain on the sidelines, with no inkling as to what was going on across the wall.

He hated this. Not knowing.

Running his hands though his hair in agitation, he turned to the window and looked out at the city, feeling helpless and inadequate.

Alfred waved to him from down below on the street. He waved back, half-heartedly.

He was so useless.

He _hated_ this.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Erzsébet didn't spook easily.

She never had. Even in her youth, she had been unshakeable to the most frightening moments in life; she had never worried that there was a monster in her closet, she had never been scared of the school bully, she had never cried when her parents were divorcing, she had not been frightened the first time that Roderich had kissed her hand, and she had not been scared at the prospect of leaving her native Hungary to live in Austria.

But even she shuddered every single time the GDR guards at the East German border stared her down, observing every minute detail about her appearance, scanning her visa with calculated ruthlessness, their dogs barking so close that she could feel their hot breath on her legs. This was the first time she had crossed without Roderich firmly at her side; a mistake, perhaps? Maybe she was just foolhardy to believe that this could have a happy ending.

But Ludwig... Poor Ludwig. He was slipping down a great cliff.

"And you, sir?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just..."

Beside her, Alfred was shifting his weight anxiously from one foot to the other, smiling non-threateningly when needed and looking slightly ill the rest of the time that he spoke.

She could only hope that he didn't trip up as they asked him the most intense of questions, meant to rattle him. Alfred was certainly an example of supreme confidence, but how did he hold up under pressure?

"I'd rather tour around with you Russki's than those redcoats any day! Where's the pirozhki?"

Quite well, apparently. Good.

Or, at the very least, he came off as too utterly idiotic to be anything _but _an American tourist. Her worries quickly passed when the guard's furrowed brow slowly came up, and he seemed to decide that the scuffling man with the untidy blond hair and geeky glasses was completely harmless.

Whew.

"Alright," he barked, and ushered them through. "Keep a hold of your passports."

A more thorough guard would have, perhaps, thought it _odd _that a seemingly normal American tourist was traveling side-by-side to Soviet Germany with the Hungarian wife of the Austrian ambassador. A strange mash-up of anti-communist nationalities, to say the least...

Well, she'd take it any day. They rushed through the barricade as soon as the gate was raised, and the giant breath that Alfred had been holding in subconsciously was exhaled in relief.

"Oh, man," he muttered lowly, "I think I pissed myself a little."

"Consider yourself lucky that that was the worst you got," she hissed back, as they tried to amalgamate inconspicuously into the crowd.

And that was the truth. Damn dogs sometimes nicked legs.

Above them, the sky was dark with rain clouds that threatened to burst at any moment, and when they finally made their way into the lesser crowded side streets, Erzsébet froze up for a moment, uncertain suddenly of what to do.

She'd never been here alone. Roderich had always navigated these streets. In a sense.

Where to go...

Alfred stayed completely still and silent behind, allowing her to think, and then, with what might have been a shifty look, she reached back and grabbed his wrist, dragging him into the bowels of East Berlin, the hem of her long skirt muddying in the foul streets.

They disappeared into the cramped, twisting alleyways at a jog, Erzsébet leading Alfred blindly by the hand.

She didn't know where she was going.

Lost.

Alfred hunched over, tripping over his own feet as he tried to match her furious pace.

"Where are we _going_?" he finally hissed, as she started turning this way and that in confusion, as memories betrayed her, and the alleyways here all looked exactly the _same_...

She ignored his question and only went faster, and he stumbled behind her.

"_Erzsébet_! Slow down!"

His cry brought her back to reality, and she slowed her pace, as the anxiety flooded in.

"I..."

Lost.

She finally came to a halt, turning this way and that, here and there, and finally she hung her head, chest heaving for breath.

Alfred stared at her in wide-eyed alarm.

"Huh? Where are we going?"

"I don't _know_! I don't know where...he would be. This city is so goddamn big. I'm _lost_."

She felt near tears, that horrible vulnerability that she had always hated, and Alfred straightened up, placing his hand on his hip as he popped up on his toes and looked around, apparently trying to gather his thoughts.

Her own thoughts were becoming increasingly dismal. Above all, the single thought of letting Ludwig _down_ seemed to be the worst. Ludwig had gone through so much for being so young.

Gilbert may not have been a stand-up guy, he might not have been a saint, and he actually wasn't really a very good person in general, but he was _everything_ to Ludwig. Whatever could be said about Gilbert, Ludwig loved him.

And Gilbert loved Ludwig.

That was enough, for her, to risk all of this. Just to see them together again. Happy, like they used to be. She needed to find Gilbert.

No matter what.

They needed to take things into a better perspective.

Alfred, surprisingly, opened his mouth first.

"Well," he began, tentatively, as he looked over either shoulder, "let's think. Gilbert said...that he was going to blow up a Shtanzi building right?"

"_Stasi_," Erzsébet corrected, automatically.

"Right, right. Okay. Yeah, and then he was going to cross the fence, right? So. We're never gonna find him out here! In all of this! I mean, I know it's a little risky, but what else can we do? ...we just have to stake out the closest Stansi-whatever building to where he wanted Ludwig to go, and then see if we can nab him when he gets there! If he's going to blow it up, then he's got to get close enough to where we would be able to get him, right? If we can't hunt him down, then we lay in wait in ambush! It's brilliant!"

Alfred's gushing complete, he gawked down at her, his look suddenly hopeful and possibly proud.

Brilliant? She wouldn't go quite that far. And it was more than a _little_ risky. To leave everything up to chance. To wait until the very last second, and risk absolute devastation.

What else could they do?

There was absolutely _no_ possibility that they could find Gilbert in this labyrinth of a city on such a tight deadline, and if they continued searching in this manner, they were more than likely to draw unwanted GDR attention. Then they, too, would have a date with a _Stasi _office, but it would not be under favorable circumstances.

And Gilbert would be lost.

"Well..."

There was no time to waste. The night was quickly approaching on the ominous second day that Gilbert had so vaguely mentioned; the entire day before had been wasted on sorting out Alfred's papers in Roderich's office.

There was no choice. Even though she _hated_ it.

"Alright."

She reclaimed Alfred's hand, and dragged him into the shadows.

Oh, Gilbert.

If he could have only waited.

* * *

><p><em>Smile.<em>

Footsteps sounded out from the shadows.

The clouded skies gave not even the smallest window of opportunity for the moon or the stars to shine through. The city was on the verge of sleep, as the clocks were getting ever nearer the midnight hour.

Fog.

It was cold, and Gilbert's bulky coat was not an item of particular suspicion, and even though the streets were completely devoid of passersby, he kept the blank, ghostly smile plastered on his face. His eyes, almost hidden under overgrown bangs, were equally emotionless.

Just walk straight and smile. That was it. In this moment, in this city, and in this predicament, there was no room for emotion.

It would have been a hindrance. How could he expect to pull off such a delicate operation if he was frightened, and his hand trembled? How could he expect to succeed if he were nervous, and he stumbled in the heat of flight? And how could he _ever _expect to make it across the border if he were hesitant, and he faltered in a moment of weakness?

He had to stay blank now, and try to be patient.

He wanted to feel. He wanted to panic and turn back. He wanted to rush forward in excitement. He wanted to strike out in anger.

But he couldn't.

For now, he pushed aside every human impulse, as well the voice of reason in the back of his mind, in favor of a cold, mechanical thoughtlessness. He could feel the weight of the grenade in his hand, and the cool steel of the pistol against his waist; but he could not feel the excitement that should have accompanied them.

It was not something he was doing for pleasure, he had convinced himself. It was only an escape. A way out. Of course, that wasn't _completely_ true; despite every attempt to feel nothing, he could still sense the burning desire in his chest to cause harm.

To someone.

_Anyone_.

Killing even one goddamn _Stasi_ before he left would be the greatest fare-thee-well present anyone could ever have asked for.

But he would not go out of his way once he started running. He did not have such luxuries.

Ludwig was waiting.

He checked the streets. Still empty. People were sleeping; heavy hearts made that easy.

...it had been _so_ long since he'd seen Ludwig. Did he still look the same? Had he gotten bigger? Ludwig was only twenty-three; they said you didn't stop growing until you were twenty-five. Maybe he was taller. Maybe he'd grown his hair out. Maybe he'd started dressing differently. Maybe he'd started experimenting with facial hair, like young men did.

Ludwig, his little brother with the older spirit.

Ludwig wouldn't condone what he was doing. He'd be disappointed.

The shadows shifted.

He was still a fair distance from his destination. With every step he took, his grip on the precious grenade tightened. It was all he had.

He would be there soon.

Step. Look. Step. Look.

He smiled.

And he would keep smiling, all the way to freedom, and they could all go and fuck themselves as he held Ludwig tightly in his arms, whispering in his ear and promising him that now that they were together again, it would be for forever this time.

_Forever. _

He meant it this time.

_Together._

He and Ludwig had been meant for each other.

He knew it. He could feel it. And why not? Ludwig was his brother. His only brother. His only family. His only connection to this world. His only reason to better himself. The only person who would ever even _notice_ if he were to disappear from the face of the earth. Maybe he hadn't done a great job as a big brother, maybe he'd only been a let-down, but Ludwig had loved him all the same.

He would do anything to get back to him.

If he could not...

Then there would be nothing else to do than to lie down and die. He'd die to get back to Ludwig. He'd kill.

A strange presence washed over him, and he looked up instinctively when he shuddered.

There it was.

It was not an obviously noticeable building, save for the way it seemed to rise out of the gloom perhaps a bit more than the others did, bathed in the eerie, otherworldly light of the streetlamps. A normal Berliner would pass by it quickly, knowing what silent and stealthy danger lie within, but a tourist would never have given it a second thought.

Gilbert knew it well.

He had, after all, watched this building compulsively for the past two months, scoping out its every feature. The front doors were a heavy steel; not impenetrable, but certainly an obstacle. An explosive blast would dispatch them.

His plan was not completely absurd, but was far from fool-proof.

Okay.

Maybe it was bordering on absurd.

But, desperate times, etc.

He took a final scope of the street.

Slinking up towards the doorstep under cover of darkness, he would throw the concussion grenade, and run like a demon, as (theoretically) the flames of the explosion would block the _Stasi_ inside from immediately chasing after him. From there, he would continue his mad dash straight to the barbed wire fence, where (theoretically) the guards would leave their posts to run to the aid of their comrades. When they were gone, and, hopefully, the snipers in the towers were distracted, he would twist and crawl his way through the tangled wire and emerge victorious on the other side.

Assuming everything played out now as it had so often in his head.

Ludwig would have shaken his head, and moaned, 'Oh, Gilbert.'

He should have known all along that such a fantasy was just that.

His footsteps dissolved into complete silence as he approached, hands tensing in anticipation as stealth took over. He looked around in a moment of uncertainty, to make sure he was truly alone.

He paused momentarily, foot in the air thinking that he had perhaps seen a shifting off in the shadows. Frozen, he stared into the darkness of the alley. His eyes tried to penetrate the gloom.

Breathlessness.

He swore he had seen something, but as he squinted now, there was nothing.

Nothing.

He quickly brushed it off. There was no time to waste on paranoia. It was time to act. He was not trying to be obvious.

Resting his foot on the very first step, he clutched the grenade in his fist, and took a deep breath. Once he pulled the pin, he had around five seconds to turn tail. Not long, but enough to clear some distance.

Five seconds to freedom.

Time.

Swiftly, he reached up and plucked the pin from the top of the little bomb almost daintily, and flicked his wrist. Anyone passing would have merely thought that he was brushing off a piece of lint. The grenade made only a small, innocent 'clink' as it fell on the top step, near the door, and he snapped immediately around, foot in midair as he started to bolt.

The air was static.

Blood pounded in his ears as his heart thudded.

He tried to run.

But there was someone behind him.

Shock.

He froze in his tracks in _horror_ the second he turned and came face to face with a pair of vibrant, expressive green eyes. Because he knew those eyes well.

"Gilbert!"

_Five._

Startled, he could only stare in a dumb stupor, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, and his mind barely registered that he was looking at Erzsébet. What the hell was _she_ doing here?

A shift on the sidelines caught his eye, and he looked to her side. Alfred, too? That big dope. She'd sent him a picture once, of Alfred and Ludwig passed out in their living room above books and bottles of beer. He'd never met Alfred before.

What awful timing. Idiots.

He shook his head to clear it, and whispered, in disbelief, a dumb, "W-what?"

_Four._

Erzsébet took a step towards him, her brow creasing in what could either have been anger, disappointment, or, more likely, both. "Gilbert! You idiot," she hissed, and stomped her foot.

How had she found him here? And why?

Didn't she understand?

_Three_.

"Come on! We have to get out of here before someone sees you! If they caught you..."

Why was she always so mad at him? He fazed her angry, fervent whispers into white noise.

She yelled too much.

_Two_.

"...in prison for the rest of your life!"

At least when Ludwig yelled at him it was for a good reason.

Time seemed to pass so slowly.

Time.

His head hurt. Nag, nag, nag. That's all she did. Time wasted.

Time?

Oh. Shit.

With a terrible sinking in his gut, he remembered.

Fuckin' grenade on the step, sitting in silent danger.

His eyes widened in horror, and with a wild shriek, he reached out and shoved Erzsébet backwards with all of his might, so hard that she almost fell backwards, caught only by Alfred.

They gawked at him in a moment of incomprehension.

And when he screeched, "Run!" in the most awful voice he could ever remember using, Alfred (reacting quickly for one that looked so damn dumb) grabbed Erzsébet by the hand and tried to yank her along as he broke into a sprint, as though the very gates of hell were opening up beneath him.

"_Gilbert_!"

Gilbert broke out of his stupor, and tried to follow.

_One_.

He made it only a yard before the explosion rocked the street, and as the intense flames bathed the steel doors of the _Stasi_ office, all three of them vanished in the smoke.

* * *

><p>Silence.<p>

A thick, mind-numbing silence.

Like outer space.

How long had they lain there, vulnerable and wounded?

Time felt lost.

His head hurt like hell.

The taste of blood.

Alfred squinted his eyes when he came to, and with a pained groan, he tied to gather his strength as he head himself moaning involuntarily. Stunned moments, and then somehow, he opened his eyes. He couldn't see. Blurs. Shapes. He reached up with a shaking hand, and felt on his face.

His goddamn glasses wee gone.

Groping out, fingers hitting cold, wet pavement, he searched this way and that, and finally felt the unnerving crunch of frail glass and steel beneath his hand. Pulling the mangled glasses forward, he pushed himself off the wet street, perched his cracked glasses upon his nose, and watched for a stunned moment as blood dripped steadily onto the street beneath him, creating a small, crimson pool.

He fell back onto his knees and reached up, holding his forehead gingerly as his head burst into agony.

His nose was bleeding. There was a faint screeching in his ears.

He felt like he'd been hit by a train.

Holding his head, he looked around through bleary eyes.

Where was everyone? What had happened?

He looked behind, and when he saw Erzsébet's motionless form a mere yard away, the adrenaline woke him up like a bolt of lightening and he crawled over in a panic, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders, shaking her as gently as he could.

He remembered now.

Ludwig's huge fuckin' idiot of a brother.

"Hey," he hissed, for fear of shouting, as he hovered above Erzsébet and felt his heart racing in horror. "Hey! Wake up! Oh, c'mon! Wake up, wake up, please wake up!"

She did, slowly, (oh, thank God!) and when she began to moan in pain, he looked around in distress.

Where was Gilbert?

A fire was burning a short distance away, bright in the gloomy streets, and he forced himself onto his feet, grabbing Erzsébet under her arms and hauling her as quickly as he could back into the shadows of an alley.

This place was dangerous.

When he propped her up against a wall, he slapped her cheek smartly, and she came back to herself with pained groaned.

"Wake up, we gotta get outta here!"

After a moment of stillness, she finally became alert and aware of her surroundings, and before he could stop her she had cried loudly Gilbert's name. In the same moment, the marching footsteps came barging down the street.

For their ruckus, her cry went unheard.

He reached out and pulled her back to his chest as she meant to walk out into the street, covering her mouth harshly with his scraped, bloody hand and scuttling back into the darkness.

Shouting.

They sat there in the dirty gloom, her back to his chest, staring with wide-eyed horror into the street.

Running men passed. No one noticed them. But still, he didn't let go of her. Just in case.

The footsteps were farther away, and they finally dared themselves to peer out into the chaos.

A terrible, shrill alarm sounded above them, ringing out into the still darkness as a red light suddenly came to life and began to twirl wildly around them, bathing them with light every two seconds. They crouched in the shadows of the alley, Alfred's hand still firmly cupping Erzsébet's mouth, and watched as the smoke slowly began to thin.

The doors of the office were gone.

Officers stood on either side of the building, observing the dying flames with interest as they muttered to each other. Two large men in un-decorated uniforms were retreating quickly inside with something in their arms, as though hauling an injured comrade to safety.

Even the hand suppressing her voice could not stifle Erzsébet's sudden sob of anguish, and Alfred saw why:

Gilbert was gone.

Someone looked into the shadows, and knowing their time was far gone, Alfred pulled her back into the alley and they stole away into the night.

They couldn't stay. They had come too late.

Gilbert was gone.

Oh, _God_. This would break Ludwig's heart.

Too late.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Awkward was barely a strong enough word.

The sun was just beginning to break over the eastern horizon, but it did not bring with it a sense of relief, as it fought desperately to break through the dark storm clouds. A low mist hung drearily over the streets, the humidity was suffocating, and the two disheveled people towards the back were certainly as miserable as the weather.

They did not meet each others' eyes, as they stood there side by side, and their presence alone was enough to make everyone passing nearby feel, well..._awkward_.

They looked as if they had been, for lack of a better expression, put through the wringer.

A man and a woman, both standing absolutely still, as though the slightest movement would bring both of them down. The woman was holding her head gingerly, her wet hair matted to her scalp as she squinted her eyes in what could have been an attempt to hold back tears. Her dress was torn, and mottled.

The man was in perhaps worse shape, the front of his ripped shirt drenched with dried and fresh blood. His glasses were scratched so badly that it would have been surprising if he could see anything at all. Above his eye was a deep gash that seemed poorly tended to, as it still oozed dark blood, and he swayed to and fro in an almost imperceptible manner; a doctor passing by would have suspected that his equilibrium had been thrown off by a blow to the head.

Something—or some_one_—had apparently beaten them down.

They smelled faintly of gunpowder.

They stood in line at the border, and didn't say a word. Every so often, the man reached up, and rubbed at his temple with a look of distress.

And distress, Alfred would have agreed, was an accurate description.

Clenching Erzsébet's hand tightly, Alfred stared firmly at the ground as they waited patiently for their turn. He could not bear to lift his head, lest he accidentally catch her gaze. Doing so might have made her burst into tears.

They had spent the night hours wandering through the alleys to bide time until the border opened, and Erzsébet had tried to wipe the blood from his face, but they looked no better now than they had earlier. His vision was blurry. Was it because his glasses were so badly damaged, or was it because he was on the verge of tears?

He was so ashamed.

They had _had _him. Gilbert had been _right there_, in arm's reach, and yet still they had been unable to pull him to safety.

What a disaster.

Now, they stood with only each other, their swift retreat a shameful reminder of their miserable failure. And how was he going to sit down in front of Ludwig and tell him that he had been unable to stop Gilbert? Worse! How was he supposed to tell Ludwig that the _Stasi_ had his brother? That once the _Stasi_ had someone, they were never seen again...

He bowed his head, heart aching.

Ludwig would never recover from this.

Not ever.

"Next!"

They shuffled forward, wisely deciding to stay in line with the same guard that had let them through the day before. When they stepped up to him, he recognized them, and, with wide-eyes, he took Erzsébet's papers, although his attention was much focused elsewhere.

"Whoa-ho!" he crooned, unabashedly, raking them with unguarded curiosity as he held Erzsébet's passport in his hand. "What happened to _you_?"

People. Always so nosy.

"What does it look like?" Alfred spat back, in an increasingly aggressive mood as depression started to sink in. "We got mugged."

They stared each other down, as Alfred fought off dizziness, and for an awful moment, he thought that the guard would disappear into his glass box and pick up the phone, calling a nearby GDR officer to tell him that he had suspicious persons, and they'd be joining Gilbert back across town.

But he only took Alfred's passport in his hands, and said, simply, "Oh."

It was certainly a believable circumstance, and it seemed to satisfy his curiosity about their speedy return to the West.

They suppressed their sighs of relief, and when the guard's hand went to raise the gate, he added, "Did you file a report?"

"Of course," he retorted, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Where do you think we were all night?"

"The ambassador will hear about this," Erzsébet added, quietly, as they pushed through. An empty, half-hearted threat, meant only to keep him from asking too many damn questions.

"Right, right... Bon voyage."

The other side came, just like that.

So easy for them. So hard for Gilbert and Ludwig.

They sped away, and parted ways in the street, Erzsébet going to the north and Alfred heading south.

They both had to cover their bases.

Alfred was dreading his.

* * *

><p>Darkness.<p>

_You idiot!_

His head was splitting open.

A strange daze.

He couldn't think.

Someone was screaming in his ears, faintly, as though through a fog.

He felt his fingers twitching.

...where _was_ he?

His head lit up like fire.

God, he had never felt such pain in his life. White-hot, and dots of colored light danced before his closed eyes.

_We have to get out of here before..._

Something was dripping down onto his neck. His fingers were numb.

Drip, drip.

Moaning, Gilbert tried to roll his head to the side, but the pain stopped him short, and then, as he fought to come out of the clutches of unconsciousness, chest heavy and feeling exhausted, he heard something that made his skin crawl.

Voices.

He could hear _voices_, faint and garbled as though they were coming to him through a tunnel, the words and tones strangely echoed. He had difficulty distinguishing the words, as his head threatened to explode.

Was there someone standing right next to him? He could not tell. That was more unnerving.

He couldn't think. Words floated in through the mess in his head.

Someone laughed.

"...would like...know."

"...you. Call...to...General."

The voices suddenly stopped, or maybe his ears had just given out; but no, and he thought he heard the slamming of a door.

He stayed still for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

He could feel the cold liquid still dripping onto his neck, and tried to raise his hand to cradle his forehead. He could not. With effort, he tried to open his eyes, and after a moment he finally succeeded, somehow or another. He couldn't help but hiss in pain as the dim light assaulted his eyes, even through the squinting.

Oh, God. Was he dying?

It felt like it. He'd always wondered what it felt like to die. This seemed pretty goddamn close.

He tried to look again, and, slowly, the pain receded enough to think and his field of vision began to clear.

Soon, he wished it had not. And he wished that he hadn't woken up at all.

The room was claustrophobically small, lit up in a sickly, iridescent light, and there were no windows. One door, made of steel. One bland color. He had assumed, in the depth of agony, that he had been laying, but now that he was coming back to consciousness, he realized that he was sitting in a cold chair. Looking down, he felt a terrible lurch of fear in the pit of his stomach, and his pulse began to race.

He was restrained.

Hands and legs shackled to this monstrosity of an iron chair, he tried to struggle, as quietly as possibly, but it was no use.

He could not move.

A strap around his waist kept his torso firmly in place. Iron all around. There was no way he could escape such heavy cuffs.

He was stuck.

The blood pounding in his ears only made it all the worse.

He felt far away, and yet here he was.

Pushing down the nausea, he tried to refocus on his surroundings, as his vision ever cleared, and he took in its appearance in more detail, looking for some clue as to where he was.

A hanging lamp with a flickering fluorescent bulb hung above him, casting shadows that crept and fled. The walls were concrete blocks, painted off-white and matching perfectly the concrete floor. He saw dull, dark-red stains in the corner, and shuddered.

Dripping from above.

He was slowly coming to a terrible realization about where exactly he was, and why. No matter how much it frightened him to admit it.

How had it come to this?

Leaning his head back wearily and closing his eyes, he tried to think.

What was the last thing he remembered? Night. He remembered the night. What else?

He remembered lurking through the dark, armed and ready. He remembered the _Stasi _office looming up out of the shadows like a gateway to hell, and he remembered reaching the very first step...

The feel of a light, metal pin in his hand.

What had went wrong? Something unspeakable nagged him...

What was _wrong_?

_Gilbert! Come on! _

He started upright at the shrill scream in his mind and, horrified, cried to no one, "Erzsébet!"

Of _course_.

Erzsébet had been there, and that big oaf Alfred. They had come at him, shouting at him with no clue of the silent danger, no idea that he had already taken the pin out of the grenade. Then there had been a flash, and a searing heat, and a shrill alarm, and then nothing at all.

Oh. Oh _no_.

And now, he was in a _Stasi _stronghold, no doubt.

He had been taken prisoner.

His nausea and fear turned to rage.

"_Goddammit_! You stupid motherfuckers," he shrieked aloud to himself, as he writhed pitifully in the chair, "Everything would have been alright if you had just minded your own goddamn fuckin' _business_!"

His voice cracked, and oh, Christ, he wanted nothing more than to burst into tears and just pitch forward and _die_.

This was the worst possible outcome. The last thing he had ever wanted. He had just wanted to go home.

He had wanted to see Ludwig.

He had to get _out_ of here.

Ludwig was waiting there still, just on the other side. Right across the wall.

His hands were starting to shake with terror and cold, and he could feel a steady rise of desperation in his chest, rushing like a tidal wave.

He had to get out.

Out.

Out.

_Out_.

He wrenched his wrists and ankles fiercely, digging the steel into his flesh hard enough to draw blood. He stifled a cry at the pain, biting his lip. Hell, he'd had worse.

He pulled harder, but it was no use. The cuffs did not budge. If he wanted to escape, _really_ wanted to escape, he would have to endure even _worse _pain. Because if he could just get one hand out, then maybe...

He could not stay here.

If he could just get one hand free...

Inhaling several times to steady himself and reminding himself that Ludwig was waiting, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, clenched his toes, and then he wrenched his left had back as fiercely as he could, screeching in agony he heard his thumb pop in protest.

"_Fuck_!"

Tears stung his eyes as he bucked upward, and he tried to slip his hand out.

Not yet.

"God_dammit_!"

He shook his head to clear it, fighting off the sob that threatened to come, and pulled again, this time so harshly that the metacarpal bone in his thumb snapped with a sickening crunch, and with a shriek, he yanked his hand free, cursing.

Gasping in air to settle himself, he leaned his head back, the water from above dripping down onto his face, trying to be still as he felt the nausea rising up.

"Shit, oh, oh shit," he moaned aloud, and after a moment of deep breathing, he pulled his mangled hand up to his chest, leaning forward in an attempt to cradle his battered appendage.

He felt dizzy.

Distant.

He looked around when the nausea faded, making sure that no one had heard his cries, and tried to lower his busted left hand down to aid his right.

He had taken the clasp up, and was just starting to pull it when the heavy steel door began to creak open.

The sound of it was loud over the silence in the room. Alarmed, he leaned back into the chair, dropping his hand into his lap.

Oh, fuck it all. What bad timing. He'd been so close. Christ, what would they do when they saw how _close_ he had been to getting out?

Chest heaving, he fell completely still when two men stepped inside, shutting the door behind them. They were speaking quietly amongst themselves in language that he did not understand, but he had a suspicion. Russian.

Were they Russians, visiting the GDR for a stay?

He shuddered, and hung his head.

He'd been so close. Ludwig was standing out there now, in the dark in front of that wall, staring off into space and waiting.

Waiting.

He'd wait in vain.

The men before him fell still, and silent, and then he heard steps on the floor.

He didn't look up.

One of them was suddenly directly in front of him, and reached out, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look, and he whispered, "_Vy govorite po-russki_?"

Gilbert found himself frozen under an unreadable, too-calm stare, and could only furrow his brows in distressed confusion.

"You don't speak Russian, do you?" the other one asked, from the corner, but Gilbert did not respond, caught in horrible, violet pools of unnerving blankness.

"_Kak vas zovut_?"

"What's your name?"

He barely heard them.

God, how could anyone have eyes like _this_? There was nothing _there_, no hint of normal human emotions, no feeling, and Gilbert would not have been surprised if this man suddenly declared that he had never been afraid of anything a day in his life. If he had never felt empathy, or mercy...

They said that the eyes were the window to the soul.

Sometimes, Gilbert had wondered if that still held true if there was no soul to look at. He wondered what people saw when they looked into _his_ eyes.

Maybe they felt the same sense of alarm. He'd never been 'normal'.

Like this man.

The man studied him with scrutiny, his impeccable hat gleaming in the dull light, and Gilbert took note of how his features seemed to sharpen when he was focusing.

High brow. Strong jaw.

He shuddered, and the man finally released his chin and took a step back to converse with his comrade. Free of the hypnotizing eyes, Gilbert was finally able to take them in in their entirety.

The one that spoke to him in German was not particularly intimidating. Average height, of a slender build, with smooth brown hair and gentle, if not guarded, eyes. He might have been Ludwig's age, and maybe he had once been a student, too. The mottled bluish-violet eyes could maybe have been Lithuanian (or at least from what he'd heard, for all it mattered; Russians, Lithuanians, same difference), and he spoke his German with a strange, trilling accent.

But the other...

The exact opposite of his counterpart, the taller one _was _intimidating. Paler in complexion, dressed to the nines with a smooth, flawless (maybe gaudy) military uniform, he removed his hat and held it in his hand, watching Gilbert with a tilted head of what could have been curiosity. He was still speaking, and although his voice was soft, smooth and gentle, it was not comforting. It might have been better if he were angry and shouting; then, at least, maybe he would not have been so absolutely terrifying.

That strange calmness.

He was _overwhelming_, for lack of a better word, in both his size and his radiating, suffocating presence. The stars on his shoulders looked like those of a general.

Gilbert feared him.

Oh God, _oh_ God, would he _ever_ see Ludwig again?

Ludwig.

They conversed quietly amongst themselves, and then, suddenly, they noticed his hand, and the smaller one asked, "Did _you _do that?"

He could only nod, dumbly, and then the frightening one stepped forward and knelt down before him on one knee, as a mother before her child.

The air chilled.

Locking eyes, a tranquil smile spread over his face, and he reached up, ruffling Gilbert's hair with a strange gentleness that was somehow worse than a blow. Gilbert sensed the calm before the storm.

"Brave, you," he whispered, in clumsy, broken German, and Gilbert shivered at both the strong accent, and the sleek texture of the gloved hand as his long fingers ran through his hair, and then trailed down his jaw, and then his neck, and then his shoulder, lower, and lower...

He suddenly lifted himself up, bringing his face so close to Gilbert's that he could feel the Russian's warm breath on his neck.

And then, taking Gilbert's wounded hand within his own, he leaned in further and whispered gently into his ear, while at the same time he clenched his fist as tightly as he could, grinding the shards of broken bone in Gilbert's hand into the tendon as much as he could.

Gilbert could not stifle his scream of pain, and, as the Russian snapped his already abused thumb back in a manner that was all business, he heard that whisper playing over and over in his head.

_Welcome to hell._


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

What was taking so long?

Something was wrong.

Pacing back and forth across the tile of his kitchen floor, Ludwig chewed mercilessly on his thumbnail, seeing but not comprehending his surroundings. He was out in space. He had heard nothing from Erzsébet, and Alfred was not back yet. He had not seen them in two days.

Two long, miserable days.

And God, he had gone out and waited near that old store front where he had stood so many times before. He had waited there as instructed, hands tucked into his pockets, watching the silent wall intently until the sun had broken on the horizon.

Gilbert had never shown up.

_Meet me in two days...and I'll find you._

Two days had come and gone. He'd waited all night.

He felt sick at heart. Was Gilbert safe?

Just because he hadn't shown up... That was not necessarily a death sentence. But so many things could have gone wrong, and Gilbert was so brash and reckless. Gilbert didn't think before he acted.

With a sigh, he shuddered and collapsed at the kitchen table, his untouched coffee mug growing cold in abandonment. With every passing second, his chest seemed to get tighter.

This anxiety was just too much to bear, and he leaned back into his chair, reaching out across the tiny kitchen and yanking open a nearby cabinet drawer to pull out a bottle of pills. Grimacing, he set them onto the table before him, eyeing them disdainfully.

They looked innocent enough.

Valium.

He had never liked taking medication, not even when he was sick, but these past few years had just been so harrowing, and the wall was higher than ever and his classes were relentless and Gilbert was still _gone_.

He couldn't handle the pressure, but his doctor had given him a gift. And maybe a curse, he thought, as he took off the cap and shook two pills into his hand. The more he used them, the worse the anxiety was on the days he chose not to.

Maybe that was the point. Once Gilbert had started popping pills, he'd never really been able to stop.

Well.

Taking a swig of his cold coffee, he put the pills back with a wince.

The way things were now... What else could he do? Why couldn't Gilbert just come back? He would have given anything to have things the way they were before.

Dumb Gilbert.

Screwing the top back on the bottle, he had barely had enough time to get them back in the cabinet when there was a knock at the door.

Starting upright so fast that he knocked his chair backwards, he bolted forward, ripping through the rooms and coming to a screeching halt in front of the door and ripping it open as his hope soared.

Oh, God. Had they brought him? He hadn't seen Gilbert's face in so long.

His eyes focused, and his breath caught in his throat.

"H-Hi."

And what he saw there made his hope die, as his heart dropped into his stomach.

It wasn't Gilbert.

Alfred stood in the frame, arms loose at his sides and head bowed. He was disheveled and dirty and looked far beyond frightened, as a gash on his forehead dripped blood down on his collar. Ludwig shuddered at the sight.

All that blood. Was all of it _his_?

"Alfred?"

Was he crying? ...no. Almost.

Alfred just stood there. He didn't speak.

"Oh, God," Ludwig finally breathed, when his voice returned, and he reached out, snatching a handful of Alfred's coat and pulling him inside as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind. "Are you alright?" he asked, apprehensively, the second they were in the privacy of the living room, as he led the battered Alfred to the sofa and pushed him gently down.

Alfred only shook his head, and Ludwig knelt down next to him, brushing back the loose, unwashed bangs, observing the open wound with a severe eye.

"What happened?"

"It's nothin'," Alfred murmured, and brushed his hand away. "Just a scratch."

A scratch. Ha. Typical Alfred.

He refused to meet Ludwig's eyes, choosing to place his gaze on just about everything else possible, hands wringing terribly in his lap.

The twisting in his stomach was becoming unbearable. He had never seen Alfred look so abashed and listless, never so nervous and uncertain, and Ludwig settled in next to him, knowing he _had_ to ask but dreading the answers.

"Where's Erzsébet?"

Had something happened to her? It would be his fault.

"She's fine. She's with Roderich."

Good.

There was a horrendous silence, and with effort, Ludwig braced himself and asked, in a voice so soft it was barely audible, "And Gilbert? Where's my brother?"

Alfred buried his face in his palms, and burst into tears.

* * *

><p>How many years had it been?<p>

The only sound that kept him company was the steady dripping of crimson and water onto the concrete below.

Drip.

How long? '60 had been the last_._

Ludwig had smiled then.

His head hurt.

Blearily, Gilbert opened his eyes, and rolled his head to the side, observing his new lodgings with a blank expression. That iron chair had proved too close to failure (his own mistake, he knew) so, at the behest of that soft-spoken man that had accompanied the general, they had ripped him out of it and thrown him into a holding cell, where the iron bars were impassable, no matter how many bones he was willing to break. The cot where he lay was hardly even that; just a slab of cold, unyielding concrete.

It had been a long time. He'd almost forgotten.

The chain on his ankle kept him from wandering even a few feet, but it was pointless; he had no desire to move. They had tormented him briefly, the _Stasi_, once the general had stepped out for the evening, but he had barely been conscious then. He couldn't even remember now exactly what they had done. Maybe that was for the best.

He knew only that he was sore, and bleeding. But they had left soon in boredom when he refused to cry out, and no one had come back the rest of the night.

Even though there were no windows, he sensed that it was early morning.

The air was cold.

The void of complete silence in this cold building was almost as unnerving as the emotionless void of the Russian general's eyes.

_I miss you._

Ludwig hadn't smiled in a long time.

He wanted to go _home_.

He could not stand it here, cramped and captive. He had never been an indoor person, and this was pushing his psyche to its breaking point. This silence. To keep himself from slipping into the warm waters of insanity, he thought back on cherished memories.

Memories, after all, were all he would ever have of Ludwig again.

"Five years," he suddenly whispered to himself, and smiled weakly.

It had been five years since he had held Ludwig's hand. Five missed birthdays. Five missed summers. Five missed Christmases. In a little over two months, he realized with a lurch of regret and longing, and it would be a sixth lonely Christmas. For Ludwig, at any rate. He much doubted if he would still be around in two months.

Not here.

Why hadn't he made the Christmas of 1960 really count? He had barely even stayed home. As soon as the eve of the 24th fell and the sun was gone, he had gone out into the city, crawling in and out of bars and nightclubs until he had lost all sense of time and his feet were sore, and he had come back the next morning only when Ludwig (only seventeen years old) had called him and begged him to spend some time with him. And as soon as he came through the door, what had he done? He had staggered straight past Ludwig and passed out onto the guest bed, and Ludwig had spent Christmas day sitting silently in the living room with Roderich and Erzsébet.

He had never even said 'sorry'. He had never sat Ludwig down and tried to explain to him that it wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with him, it was just that he couldn't _bear_ to be inside of Roderich's house.

It hadn't been Ludwig's fault.

It was strange, how he had wasted that day so easily years ago, and now... He would go to the ends of the earth and back just to have a single moment with Ludwig. Just to see his face.

Closing his eyes, he tried his hardest to remember the feel of Ludwig's smooth hand within his own.

He couldn't.

Raising his hand up to his forehead, he gave a rough, deep laugh that echoed off the walls.

Welcome to hell.

Right.

It was true already, and, as though on cue, the second that the words had passed through his head, the steel doors began to slowly creak open. Steadying himself, he raised himself up at the waist, resting his elbows between his knees. Every movement was agony, but even the throbbing, burning pain in his mangled hand could not compare to the pangs of anxiety.

The not knowing of what was coming was worse than anything.

And then that soft, gentle, unreadable voice filled the silence, and he prepared himself for another day of torment.

If only by means of that voice.

It was only dawn.

* * *

><p>"Please reconsider."<p>

The office was colder than usual, but Ludwig was not bothered by it. Slouched in his chair, hands resting despondently in his lap as Roderich leaned over his desk with a look of alarm, he shook his head.

Reconsider? He couldn't.

"But, Ludwig—"

"I've already made up my mind."

Raising his head, he caught Roderich's frightened eyes, wide behind his glasses, and shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.

"Hey," he muttered, "What else do I have to lose? And to think I put Erzsébet in such danger, when I should have gone myself all along."

It was true, and he would never shake off the shame of letting his mentor's tiny wife go in his stead. She could have been killed, and how then would this conversation in Roderich's office be going?

"Erszébet is _fine_," Roderich said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady as he struggled to regain control of the situation. "Alfred is fine. _You're _fine. And there are always other options—"

"I'm going no matter what you say. But it will be easier if you help me. I don't want to set off in the dark."

Roderich fell back into his chair, and his arms fell loose in exasperation.

"And that's that?"

"That's that."

They locked eyes, and now, even the unmovable, impassive Roderich was squirming in his seat. Reaching up and running a hand through his immaculately styled hair, he slumped down and shook his head. "How can I help you do this," he whispered miserably, faltering under Ludwig's gaze, "when I've watched you grow up? I've spent so many years protecting you. For what? To cast you out now amongst the wolves? I couldn't... I can't."

"Please. I need you."

"How can you ask so much of me?"

It _was_ too much, far too much, and Roderich suddenly threw himself from his desk, slamming his fist on his desk emphatically.

Ludwig didn't flinch.

"_No_! I _won't_! He's gone! Gilbert is _gone_! We tried and we failed and there's _nothing _we can do to fix it! And now you're saying you want to throw everything away and go after him? He's probably already dead, and if he isn't he'll wish he was! It's not your fault, and you don't have to try to make up for it! What's the sense, in losing both of you? What's the point? What good can come of it? One was enough. I don't want you to be lost, too."

He trailed off, and even as his heart began to pound in guilt from Roderich's sincerity, Ludwig never looked away.

"I'm still going."

Roderich lowered his head, and stared dejectedly at his feet.

"You always want to fix his mistakes. You always want to try and make sense of the things he does. You can't, Ludwig. You can't help him this time. No one can. You don't have to try so _hard_."

"I could..."

Roderich's concern was touching. It always had been, and some part of Ludwig would have loved to just stay put, and he could pretend that Roderich and Erzsébet were his parents and that Alfred was his brother, and that everything was right in the world.

_I'll never leave you! We'll always be together._

Gilbert had promised.

"I could just forget about him," Ludwig began, pulling himself to his feet to match Roderich, "if I tried hard enough, I know I could. But would it be worth it, to throw him away? He screws up everything, and he doesn't listen, and he's stupid and stubborn and loud, and I know you _hate_ him, but... He's my brother. I have to go." He tried to smile when Roderich's hands clenched. "You were all my family. I'd do it for you. And I know you'd do it for me. So let me go."

A heavy silence settled above them, and for a moment, Ludwig thought that his words had fallen on deaf ears, and that he would have to go on alone, groping blindly in the darkness, with no one to turn to.

But then, inhaling a great breath to gather himself, Roderich suddenly reached out and tossed the phone off the hook, and then, pulling on a mask of complete indifference, he murmured, "Up north. There's a tunnel."

Ludwig leaned forward, and hung on every word.

Roderich's hands clasped around his own as he muttered away, and Ludwig squeezed them as tightly as he could

He might not ever see Roderich again. Roderich had saved his life once. Roderich had done everything for him. Roderich had been there, when Gilbert had not. Roderich was sane, rational, devoted, thoughtful, responsible; everything Gilbert was not.

And yet...

He felt sick.

Roderich was important to him. Roderich was like a father. But Gilbert was everything.

He'd do anything for Gilbert. Anything.

Gilbert was waiting.

_Forever._

* * *

><p>"Is this right?"<p>

Everything was dark.

Once to the right. Twice to the left. Right. Straight.

There were so many twists in this path.

The air was stale.

"Ludwig, I don't know about this. Are you sure you can remember your way back?"

_Left._

"Ludwig?"

_Down._

"Are you listening?"

_A corridor.  
><em>

"Ludwig!"

Strong hands reached out and grabbed his shoulders, and Ludwig came crashing back into reality with a lurch of his stomach. Alfred was before him, wide-eyed and breathless, a look of fear upon his face, shaking him for all he was worth.

"Hey! You listenin'? We should go back!"

"I remember," Ludwig whispered, more to himself, and looked around. "I think I can remember."

He could remember.

This awful place.

The East had been for so many years the source of everyone's nightmares, but in this labyrinth of alleys and stairways and doors that led to nowhere, they were coming to realize that the West could be just as unforgiving. But then, he thought with a shudder, Berlin was all just one city, wasn't it? These frightening crevasses had existed long before the Eastern Bloc.

Berlin had been whole, once.

Roderich and Gilbert knew this city like the back of their hands. Ludwig and Alfred did not, and they were struggling with Roderich's hastily and messily scribbled directions, struggling to see for the dim light of the moon. Scrambling through the back alleys, some so narrow that Alfred's wide shoulders forced him to scoot along sideways, they had passed beggars and soldiers and suspicious men that had an air of foreboding, all under the cover of darkness.

They could bring no lights, for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

But, by either dumb-luck or perseverance, they had come to their destination : an old, abandoned hospital from the long-dissolved empire, that looked on the verge of downfall, with a collapsed ceiling and dead trees at the gate. The front doors were padlocked shut, but they slunk in easily through a shattered window.

The hallways turned out to be the worst part, all the same color and the same length, with no signs.

So many doors.

Everything had fallen into ruin. Dead vines crept along the walls.

Ludwig tried to remember the turns as best he could, just in case.

Just in case he would come back.

The night was cloudy.

And now, they stood in the dark corridor, lit up with only the faintest traces of moonlight, staring at the gate ahead that would soon part them. The stillness of the hall was disturbing. Shouldn't there have at least been the scuffling of debris in the light breeze, or the scurrying of rats?

Nothing.

"Let's go."

Ludwig took a step forward, but Alfred lingered back, and he could hear him shuffling back and forth anxiously, the wheels practically grinding in his head. Ignoring him (already knowing what he longed to say) Ludwig knelt down, and, after a minute with a bobby pin, removed the unlocked chain from the front of the gate.

The chain clattered as it fell to the floor.

This thin metal mesh was the only thing that stood between them, and the hospital's death tunnel. Once the last mile for the victims of infectious diseases, it had been usurped, carved out, and elongated by now-gone rebel groups. No one used it anymore, but the _Stasi_ hadn't found it yet. It was hidden behind an inconspicuous door. There were no lights inside. Anyone foolhardy enough to enter the death tunnel had to walk a mile underground in the pitch-black, feeling their way along the dirt wall, crouching to avoid hitting their head, and hope above all that they did not slip into one of the numerous, growing sink-holes, breaking their ankle, or maybe worse...

And when the other end emerged, who knew if it had been sealed up?

"Ludwig..."

Standing, Ludwig looked over his shoulder, and whispered, affectionately, "Scared?"

"No," Alfred retorted, and leapt forward, reaching down and grabbing the gate in his hands. "I'm not!"

His half-hearted smile was hidden by the dark.

Oh, Alfred. If he died in this venture, one great regret would be that he hadn't spent more time with Alfred.

"I'm just nervous, is all," Alfred murmured, as he lifted the metal as quietly as he could for the way it screeched, ushering Ludwig through before following himself. "I mean, I'm just worried about you, going over there all alone." There was no response, and Alfred took Ludwig's arm in a vice grip. "Let me come with you."

He'd known that this was coming.

"No," was the immediate reply, and Alfred hung his head.

"Don't you trust me?"

"With my life."

And it was true. He trusted Alfred. He just couldn't come this time. Even though it hurt.

"You've done your part. You did all you could. I have to try now. Or I'd go crazy."

"Can't we just think about this for a minute? Maybe?"

"Thank you," Ludwig said, abruptly, and took a meaningful step forward.

Alfred started to speak, and then sighed, and in his mind's eyes, Ludwig could see him shaking his head in despair.

How had it ever come to this?

"Listen," he suddenly whispered, as an afterthought, "If I don't come back—"

"Don't even," Alfred barked, interrupting him rudely and fiercely, "Don't even try it! You're not good at sayin' things like that, and I hate listening to bullshit anyway. ...I know you'll come back. I'll be here when you do. Even if it's without him."

Alfred. They should have had more time together.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"I'll see ya around."

A sudden slam of the lowering grate and a clinking of chains told him he had been locked in.

There was no turning back. The former world was left behind.

Reaching out with a trembling hand, he opened the door, and plunged into darkness.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

He had not slept in three days.

He had not even eaten, and his only source of water had been the now empty bottle clenched in his clammy hand. Leaning against the wall for support, Ludwig shook his head to clear it, and refocused on the _Stasi_ building before him with bleary eyes.

He had stood here for three days, never looking away, because he had to be absolutely sure that everything he saw was routine, and not just random.

It would have been impossible to get anything useful from the unmoving, daunting front half, which was still under repair anyway, so he had scoped out the back, finding a dark, empty alley from which to observe, keeping well out of the sight of passersby.

This building. The gateway to the underworld. For the way he felt, the street between the building and where he stood may as well have been the river Styx.

And he didn't have any damn coins.

So he stood, and watched.

Even here, there were routines.

Every evening, at the stroke of eight, the uniformed guards that kept an eye on things slunk out the back door to smoke, and they leaned against a fence as they did so, giggling to themselves as they watched the passing of girls across the street. Conveniently, eight was the hour that the university classes ended, and Ludwig seriously doubted that it was a coincidence. They left the door open behind them, and stayed out for exactly ten minutes.

The hall inside was half-obscured by the door, but he did not ever see anyone walking inside of it.

It was like clockwork, and even though it was not the simple break he had hoped for, he realized that if he wanted results, he would have to do something stupid and drastic. Or maybe it was just his sleep-deprived brain convincing him that he had a chance. It had to be, because he could barely stand up, and his head hurt _so _badly, and yet he was certain that he could dart past the unsuspecting guards and waltz right inside of the _Stasi_ stronghold.

And then what?

He would have to wing it, and pray that the first door he opened just happened to lead to Gilbert. It was ridiculous, of course, and he knew that he was walking into a death trap. A suicide mission. What else could he do? It was not like he could step up to the front door and knock and say, 'hey, you seem to have my brother. Could I borrow him for a minute?'

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

His main concern now was that the effects of sleep deprivation had significantly reduced his agility and rationality, and even _if _he found Gilbert, would he be thinking clearly enough to free him and drag him out again?

He had made it through that hellish tunnel. Hours and hours crouching and feeling through dirt and spider-webs and rancid water.

He could make it down a hallway.

...couldn't he?

He felt sick.

Turning his weary head up to the heavens, he saw that the sun was already long gone beneath the horizon, the moon high in the clear sky. The streetlamps were bright, but he stayed out of their light, looming in the shadows.

It was only five minutes until eight. Five minutes before the moment of truth. Five minutes before insanity. Five minutes before he would either save Gilbert or doom them both.

He longed to close his eyes and imagine how it would be if he succeeded, the look on Gilbert's face, but he feared that doing so would make him fall asleep, and then he would miss his chance. He could not wait another day.

His anxiety was already far too great, and he was certain that his mind could not stand another hour without sleep, let alone another day.

This stress.

One the eve of the day that he and Alfred had set off into the streets, he had paused in the kitchen to look back at the bottle of Valium sitting there on the counter. Contemplating. But he had been over-confident. He had left it there.

Every day, the stress got worse, and there was nothing to help it. And every day he waited, Gilbert was falling further and further into the abyss.

What if he was already dead?

He couldn't bear the thought, and forced himself to believe otherwise. Gilbert, street-smart and tough and stubborn, would not go down so easily.

It would take more to get rid of Gilbert.

Ludwig tried to clear his mind, as the hour drew nearer.

Everything had to be timed perfectly, and if he faltered even for a second...

Disaster.

The street was quiet and still, the shop lights warm behind their glass, and then, with a sudden burst of vibrancy, the clock struck the hour and the streets came alive with escaping university students, laughing and ready to get home to their families. They swarmed past, the men grouping to catch up, the girls gaggling together to gossip, books in their hands.

Normal kids.

With a pang of longing, he recalled the days he'd stood there in front of the university and just stared.

They didn't know how lucky their normalcy was. His normal life, whatever he had, had come to an abrupt halt, and he had grown up far too soon.

The girls walked by, failing to see him in the shadows, and his heart began to race terribly when the back door to the _Stasi_ office pushed open and the skirt-chasing guards fell into their lecherous lookout posts, their backs obliviously to the door.

Ludwig stood up straight and took a great breath.

He'd have to swim fast to get across this great river.

Hades was within.

So was Gilbert.

_Don't be afraid._

He ran.

* * *

><p>Silence is golden.<p>

They had taught him that in school, anyway, back when he was a child and still had his parents. Granted, Gilbert had never cared much for the silence, always filling the void with dumb jokes and filler and laughter. He was a grandstander by all rights, and he swore that there would never be a dull moment when he was around. He had always hated boredom.

Silence had been his worst enemy.

But now, locked in solitude, he had no one to talk to, and he realized he was standing on the crumbling edge of sanity's cliff.

The doctors had told him when he was twenty (right after he had spent a night in jail for attempted arson and battery, after the parents of a classmate of Ludwig had refused to discipline their child when the little brat had stolen Ludwig's allowance, and he had taken matters into his _own _hands) that he had something that they called 'borderline affective disorder'.

Whatever the hell that was.

They told him that that was the reason he was so emotionally and physically volatile, and the other side effects would explain why he had such fierce mood swings, as well as his obsessively possessive relationship with his brother.

What, then, he had wondered, he was so jealous of people being around Ludwig because there was something wrong up in his head?

Ha.

He just looked out for Ludwig, that was all. He didn't trust other people to be around Ludwig. Was that so bad?

_'Whatever'_, he had said, shoving away the offered medication, and had never gone back.

Maybe he should have. He felt crazier now than he ever had.

Already, he could feel himself giving in to the darkness, and only the thought of saying goodbye to Ludwig kept him from slipping.

Why even bother lingering? He would not get to see Ludwig again, so there would be nothing changed by prolonging his agony.

There would be no final goodbye. Ludwig was gone.

Whatever happened to _him_, at least he could be strangely satisfied knowing that Ludwig would be in safe hands, taken well care of and surrounded by supportive friends. Erzsébet was there to coddle and worry. Roderich was there with a firm shoulder and to give advice. Alfred was there, too, to protect and cheer.

He was no longer needed in the equation. Maybe he had never been needed. Roderich would have agreed with _that_. Ludwig had been better off these past years without him. He caused Ludwig too many problems, and too much stress.

He hadn't been good enough for Ludwig.

Raising a weary, bloody hand to his forehead, he closed his eyes to fight off the tears that threatened to come.

Why couldn't he have just been patient? In time, other escape routes would surely have presented themselves, and he could have simply walked across the fence into Ludwig's waiting arms.

If he could have just _waited_, like Ludwig could.

He was always so impatient, and foolish, and the urge to be greeted like a rebel hero had been too much. A fantastical ego mixed with extreme insecurity had been his problem, and he had longed to not only escape, but to do so under the admiring stare of those he loved. Why else would he have devised such an elaborately aggressive plan?

He could have found another way.

He deserved everything he was getting.

He should just get it over with. Maybe he hadn't ever been right up in the head, anyway.

Ludwig would be better off.

Falling limp and still on the concrete slab, he slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and wondered if his body was broken enough to just give out on its own.

Ludwig would miss him, true, but only for a while.

The hour was late. He could just go to sleep.

_Brother._

He'd break his promise, but Ludwig would forgive him. Ludwig was a gentle soul, who couldn't hold a grudge.

It would be alright.

The sudden, intrusive creak of the heavy steel door stirred him back to life, and he flipped over lethargically onto his side, hoping against hope that they would just leave him alone if they thought he was sleeping.

He couldn't take anymore.

_Go away._

He just wanted to sleep. Was that so much?

There was a silence, and then a soft, ghostly whisper filled the room, so thin and frail that it could possibly have just been a figment of his imagination.

"Gilbert? _Oh_! Is that you?"

He stiffened, and squinted his eyes.

Was that—was that _Ludwig's_ voice?

It couldn't be.

Great.

He was hearing shit now. What a cruel joke.

"_Gilbert_? Oh, please, _please_..."

Damn.

It sounded so real.

And then he heard (or he thought he heard) soft footsteps behind him, and it took a moment for his tormented mind to comprehend that he was not in this room alone.

"Gilbert?"

Ludwig?

The voice came again, and he came crashing back to himself with a surge of adrenaline, starting upright so fast that his head swam with dizziness. Wrenching around, he felt a rise of unspeakable horror within him when he saw that Ludwig, looking pale and exhausted and frightened, had come into the room and shut the door behind him.

Ludwig.

It was really Ludwig.

_Why?_

"It _is _you! Oh! Gilbert! I thought you were _dead_!"

He could not even speak for terror, and only stared with wide eyes as Ludwig came up to the cell, and fell onto his knees before him, gripping the iron bars in either hand, and the look on his face was so emotional that Gilbert could think of no words to describe it.

Maybe it was the look of someone who had accidentally walked into paradise after escaping from hell.

"Gilbert?"

This was no dream. Ludwig was here.

Here.

Oh, God. Oh, God, oh God, he'd forgotten how fuckin' _beautiful_ Ludwig was—

Coming out of his stupor, he shrieked in ecstasy, and fell from the concrete cot and staggered forward, as far as the ankle cuff would allow him, reaching out desperately. But he could not get close enough, and he laid on his stomach, stretching out as far as he could, the tips of fingers finally brushing the bars. Ludwig plunged his arms through and took his hand within his own, and, for a moment, Gilbert closed his eyes and thought that he had died and gone to heaven.

He remembered, now, how Ludwig's hands felt.

Together.

And he would have given anything, as he pressed his brother's smooth, albeit dirty, palms against his chafed lips, to be able to stay like this, wanted and loved.

"I missed you so much," Ludwig whispered, and his voice was heavy with the effort of composing himself.

Lifting his head, he looked into Ludwig's eyes. Ice-blue, intelligent and gentle, far-off and dreamy and yet so serious, exactly as he remembered them. The dark circles underneath were new, but sleep would fix that.

Everything was going to be alright now. Ludwig was here. They were together again.

...did Ludwig speak Russian?

They were together, like he had promised _so_ many times they always would be, so why was his mind screaming at him so urgently to wake up, before it was too late?

_Get out._

Why couldn't he just stay with him?

_Run._

Just a little longer.

_Welcome to hell._

The words rang in his ears with a sudden relentless ferocity, and the alarm that had been fighting to break through his muddled mind finally roared to life. Ludwig had to leave.

Now.

With a gasp so great that it hurt his ribs, he pulled himself onto his knees and thrust Ludwig's hands back, eyes wide and chest aching.

"Get out!" he cried, and Ludwig fell back at his wrath, as he often did when his big brother was going a little crazy. But this time was different. Ludwig did not understand what _danger_ lay in wait. "_Get out_! You have to get out of here! Why did you _come here_? _How could you have come here_? _Why_?"

"I had to—"

"_GET OUT_!"

But Ludwig did not, the stubborn bastard, and instead crawled forward, hands reclaiming the iron bars. His look was hurt, and confused. "I won't leave you here," he whispered, and Gilbert opened his mouth to scream at him some more, threaten him even, and if he could have reached him he might have slapped him, but his strained voice died in his throat when a movement in the background caught his eye.

He looked up instinctively, and when the door behind began to push open, he was so frozen in horror that he could not even warn Ludwig.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Oh, no, what had dumb Ludwig gotten himself into?

Idiot. Big, blond idiot.

Ludwig saw his change in demeanor, and furrowed his brow, leaning in with worry as he gripped the bars ever tighter.

"Gilbert? What's wrong?"

There was a short pause, as Gilbert tried to speak, or move, or even just mouth the words, and then a different voice suddenly came over the silence.

"Gilbert, huh? So, that's his name."

Before him, Ludwig jumped so hard that it looked liked he had been shocked, and when he realized what was happening, the defeated look he sent Gilbert was heart-breaking; complete and utter hopelessness.

He had been caught. The look of defeat, and despair.

Behind them, arms crossed above his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, stood the brunette that had been acting as translator, and Gilbert now knew that he was actually a lieutenant, and if _he _was here...

The Russian could not be far behind.

The thought of his little brother and the wolfish general in the same room together made his head spin. Falling backwards and covering his eyes with his hands, Gilbert could not bear to watch, coward that he was, and moaned his despair.

Oh, God, what were they going to do now? Why had Ludwig even come here?

Dumb, dumb Ludwig.

"Who are you?" asked the lieutenant, but Ludwig stayed still and quiet, never taking his eyes from Gilbert's trembling form, refusing to acknowledge the man behind.

"Gilbert," he whispered, careless of the unwelcome visitor, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought I could... I tried. I really did. But, no matter what happens," he lowered his voice to a whisper and rested his head against the bars, closing his eyes in exhaustion and looking for all the world as though he were drifting into sleep, "it was worth it, just to see you again. If only for a moment."

He trailed off, and Gilbert could not reply, too choked up and numb, and hung his head. If he even tried to open his mouth, he would only burst into tears.

He did not want to cry in front of Ludwig. And for a moment, it might not have even mattered, as Ludwig swayed to and fro before him and pressed his forehead into the bars, and it was likely that he was asleep.

He couldn't move.

The atmosphere was already beyond dismal, as the lieutenant watched them seriously from behind, and yet somehow it suddenly became colder and thinner, and when he finally managed to raise his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in terror.

Someone else was here.

"_Ah_," came a new voice, and the soft notes and suaveness of the tone made Gilbert shiver the same as if it had just started snowing, "_Lyubvi vse vozrasty pakorny_."

It was _him_.

His blood turned to ice, and from his seat on the concrete floor, he could see the Russian towering up from behind the reposing Ludwig, a calm smile on his face as he looked down at them with a tilted head. Curiously. Amusedly. He was dressed more immaculately that he had the past few times he had come, almost as if he had had some kind of sixth sense that today something special was happening.

"_Kto eto_?"

A shrug from the lieutenant, and, reaching down, the Russian placed a large hand on Ludwig's shoulder, and grunted thickly, "Hey! You? Who?"

Ludwig started from sleep, and raised his head, wearily.

"Who?"

For a moment, Gilbert locked eyes with his brother, and Ludwig smiled weakly, coming back down to earth.

"Don't worry about me," he whispered, and then, pulling together every bit of dignity and resolve that he possessed, he pulled himself tiredly to his feet and turned around. He stood tall, almost as tall as the Russian, and met his eyes with a high chin.

Proud and calm and in control. Everything Gilbert was not.

Despite the lurching fright in his veins and the nausea in his stomach, he could not help but be taken aback in awe at Ludwig's confidence in the face of this terrifying general, who had broken _him _into submission the very second he had laid eyes upon him.

Ludwig was brave. Gilbert was proud, and in the back of his mind he hoped that maybe Ludwig had learned it from him. But he doubted it.

Maybe Alfred and Roderich had taught him.

The Russian began to speak, calmly, that soft voice always gentle, and the lieutenant followed suit, dictating almost mechanically, and Gilbert _hated_ the way his pale eyes raked Ludwig up and down.

"How did you get in here? All of the _Stasi_ are specially trained, by my own KGB. And yet somehow you slipped past them. I admit that I am curious. Either you've been trained yourself, or I have to do some spring cleaning in the department."

"Maybe both," Ludwig said, and his voice cracked with the effort of speaking.

The Russian laughed.

"Or maybe just luck! Why did you come here? Just for him? Who is he to you?"

Ludwig stood strong.

"My brother."

Gilbert couldn't even watch.

"You're an Easterner?"

Ludwig shook his head, and the general's eyes lit up. He spoke faster and higher, obviously quite interested, and the lieutenant's drone voice did not match his enthusiasm.

"Westerner? Indeed! So, you crossed the border _and _broke into a _Stasi_ office. That's quite a bit of effort. You had to have had help." Ludwig shrugged a shoulder noncommittally, but the Russian waved it off. "No matter. The act alone is impressive. So. You got in. But how did you plan on getting _him_ out? Indulge me."

At this, Ludwig fell silent, and the Russian rested his chin in a palm, holding his elbow up with the other. He turned his gaze to Gilbert, who flinched back.

Gilbert was glad that Ludwig's back was to him, because he would be ashamed for Ludwig to see him shaking so.

Ludwig was still.

The Russian tilted his head and smiled in an amicable manner.

"I see. Your brother inflicted quite a bit of damage on this building. Tempered steel doors are expensive. Money that goes to the _Stasi_ comes out of the war chest. Money I could put to better uses. I would have enjoyed sending him to a work camp in Siberia to pay off his debt, but all of my gulags were dissolved." He paused to gauge a reaction, but Ludwig was impassive, and he continued on with a wave of his hand. "But, I was still thinking of having him sent to Siberia. I..." The translator paused, lowering his eyes in a moment of somberness, and then carried on dutifully, "I just opened a new prison, you see. I would like to fill it before the end of the year."

The word 'Siberia' was enough to shake even the bravest of men, and Gilbert could see that Ludwig's hands were beginning to tremble at his sides, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

As for himself... He would gladly go to Siberia, if only Ludwig would get sent out the door and back to the West, safe and untouched. He wanted to say as much, but he lost his voice in the face of the smiling general.

He did not possess his brother's unshakeable nerve. Strange, the effect a man could have on another.

"I'll pay, whatever you want," Ludwig offered, stepping forward eagerly even though he must have known that it was next to impossible that the offer would be accepted.

As if Ludwig had any money.

"Kind of you. But I'm afraid that I am taking this rather personally. I am just touring the Eastern Bloc, you see, and only the second day in Berlin my offices are bombed. I don't like terrorists," he added, primly. "Tomorrow I leave. What, I wonder, will become of him?"

Ludwig's face fell.

"What do you want?"

"Who said I wanted anything?"

A trick question; something of value was in the air. Otherwise, the _Stasi_ would have already cuffed Ludwig and dragged him off.

They were only playing a game.

It was getting _dull_, and Gilbert regained his voice.

"Ludwig, go home! Just run!"

Oh, God, wouldn't he just _run_? He was a fast sprinter, and if he could reach the door...

Maybe.

Ludwig only shook his head to clear it, and kept still.

"If you don't want anything," he muttered, wearily, "Then let him go. You've done enough to him. Didn't your mother teach you about mercy?"

Ludwig's speech was strange; thick and clumsy and half of the words were clipped off on the ends. He hadn't slept. For how long?

The general scoffed. "Hm. Not possible, I dare say. Maybe I enjoy having him here. The cell looks better with someone in it, no? You'll have to make a better offer than money. I have no want of money. And appeals to my morality are unnecessary."

Vague allusions and teasing possibilities.

Gilbert knew that Ludwig cared not for them.

Games.

* * *

><p>And Ludwig, as irritable as he was, was inclined to agree.<p>

"What do you _want_?" he asked, impatiently and tiredly, his voice nearly a whine as he fought to keep himself standing straight up.

Gilbert was screaming from behind.

His head was pounding.

Gilbert's voice was too loud.

"Ludwig! _Go_!"

He sent Gilbert a look of agitation, and waved his hand in the air to silence his brother. For a second, Gilbert fell still, and he turned his attention back to the man looming before him.

God. He was _so _tired. Three days. If he could only rest his head for just a moment.

He had made a mistake in barging in here so boldly. Now he was no better off than Gilbert.

"We're bargaining, aren't we? You make _me _an offer."

Gilbert started screaming again.

The Russian began to circle him relentlessly; a shark that smelled blood in the water. Their voices were driving him _crazy_, as Gilbert's screams filled one ear, and the soft whispers of the Russian and his translator amalgamated into one haunting, unsettling hum that filled the other.

He raised his hands to his head, and when the disjointed buzz became too much, he cried out roughly, "_What do you _want?"

For a moment, he thought he would faint.

He was dizzy.

Taking advantage of his break in composure, the Russian clasped his hands behind his back, studying him thoroughly, and then began to speak, and the pleased look on his face was that of a man who knew he now had the upper hand.

"They say that I'm the worst of the generals. Heartless, even. But I'm not a bad person, you see. It's the rules that make me merciless. I have a job to do, just like everyone else. Sometimes my job makes things black and white. In the military you have to think of the unit, not the individual. You interest me. So, I will give you an opportunity than I feel is adequate while conforming to the rules."

Even the translator seemed strangely curious, staring unblinkingly at his commander as he spoke thoughtlessly out of habit.

Gilbert's cries stopped, and even Ludwig felt his breath stop in anticipation.

"What?"

"What, I wonder, is your brother worth to you?"

"Anything," Ludwig responded without hesitation, and the Russian's lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.

"I thought so. Then, I make my offer. The rules say that I have one prisoner. We think of it, almost, as if we were doing inventory. One comes in, and one goes out. I will release your brother. I will wipe away all criminal charges. I will walk him to the border myself. I will see that he enters the West, safe and secure. The record of him will no longer exist. And I ask only one small thing in return. You must..."

The lieutenant trailed off, for a moment, and Ludwig felt himself go rigid with expectancy as the brunet turned wide-eyes to his superior and slipped back into Russian.

What was happening? He had a horrible, sinking feeling...

A suspicion.

The general's voice hardened as he barked what sounded like an order, and the lieutenant could only lower his eyes, and finish, bleakly, "You must take his place."

The air went stale.

"_One _of you must stay," he amended, almost as a cruel afterthought, "and the other will be free to go. The one who leaves will not face prosecution. The other will go to Siberia. You have two minutes to decide. Only _you_ will have the final say."

The translator looked up then and locked eyes with Ludwig, adding, strangely, "He would...prefer for _you _to stay. He finds your brother boring."

The room fell deathly silent, and the Russian leaned back against the concrete wall nonchalantly, arms crossed above his chest as he watched them with what could have been interest.

Of course. It wasn't enough to merely give an order, and rip them apart as he would. Better to make it an impossible decision to be considered amongst themselves, and to ensure that they would live with the knowledge of their choice for the rest of their lives.

Punishment enough.

"I..."

He could not breathe. He couldn't think. Falling back against the iron bars, Ludwig hung his head, as his world crashed down around his feet.

What could he do?

_Together, forever._

He had spent his whole life being protected by Gilbert from the worst parts of the world, but this time there was no one to lean against. No way to turn back. No way out. No one to tell him what to do.

Reaching up and holding his head in his hands, he wanted so badly to scream, or run, or even just sit down on the floor and cry, but he did not, forcing himself to stay strong for Gilbert's sake. Everything he did was for Gilbert's sake. Everything. Gilbert had protected him for so many years.

Maybe it was his turn.

He turned around on unsteady feet, and caught Gilbert's horrified gaze.

_Anything._

He'd do anything for Gilbert.

Gilbert was shaking his head, eyes wide and full of unspeakable emotion, and then he started screaming again. His words could barely penetrate into Ludwig's overloaded mind.

This was too much, too soon, and he was so _young_.

"_Don't_! What are you doing? _Ludwig_! Look at me!"

He had never really even had a chance to live.

Ludwig closed his eyes, and rested his palms against his ears in a desperate attempt to gather his thoughts, as Gilbert shrieked, "Are you _stupid_? Get outta here! Get _out_! This is your chance! Go back home and forget me!"

His head hurt.

"_Don't_!"

Gilbert had always made the decisions before.

"_Your _choice," came a sudden whisper in his ear, and he started, looking over to see that the Russian was a mere inch from his face, smiling tranquilly as he whispered in choppy German, "Not, ah...he? I listen to only you." He reached out and brushed his side with an errant hand, never looking away, and the innocent act alone was enough to send shivers down Ludwig's back.

He could sense the storm lurking behind those tranquil eyes, and it was daunting. Could he overcome the tempest? Gilbert couldn't, that was certain.

"Ludwig, _go home_!" the voice from behind cried, and as he turned to meet his brother's eyes, Ludwig realized with a sinking stomach that Gilbert had started to cry. "I'm your big brother!" he moaned, as he rested his forehead against the red-stained concrete, "I'm supposed to _protect _you! Make me stay! Make me stay! I couldn't ever face myself, if I... If you..." He clutched his chest with his uninjured hand, as though his heart was stopping in his chest. "There was so much that I wanted for you to do."

He broke off and buried his face in his hand, dissolving into sobs.

It was heartbreaking and pitiful, and it forced Ludwig to come to a final conclusion:

"Time is up."

Gilbert could not stay here.

_Anything._

Not with this Russian. Gilbert was the stronger one, physically, but he could not handle these mental assaults of isolation and torment and ruthlessness as well as Ludwig could. He was too fragile, too insecure, and too unsure of his own strengths, and his mind was not quite sound. He would break down under this Russian's manipulative and silvery tongue.

The thought of his wild, lively, unruly brother broken into subservience was too much, and he turned around to meet the Russian's pale eyes.

Oh, Gilbert.

It was too late to go back. He knew what he had to do.

Pulling himself up straight to fight off the nausea, he held his chin high, and said, decisively, "Send him home. I'll stay."

With a cry, Gilbert collapsed, and the Russian hid a smile behind his fist.

Then, despite the terrible fear in his heart and the tremble of his hands, he added, sternly, "But I have a condition of _my _own."

A lame attempt to keep a little control.

When his words had been translated, the Russian placed his hands on his hips, and giggled briefly. A cold, high-pitched, emotionless sound.

"Oh?"

Ludwig's resolve foundered under the unwavering stare, and he barely managed to whisper, "Just let me... Let _me _take him to the border. Please."

"You'll run," the lieutenant murmured, and he shook his head.

"I won't. I give you my word." He looked over his shoulder at the crumpled Gilbert, sobbing so hard that his entire frame shook with the effort, and whispered, "I just want to say goodbye."

There was a pause, as the Russian raised his gloved hand to his chin, thoughtfully. He looked them over, and then waved a hand carelessly in the air, as though swatting a fly.

He was humored.

"Go."

Ludwig's relief was short lived, and the Russian stepped forward and grabbed his upper arm and yanked him in, taking his chin in a strong grip, so close together that he could feel the general's breath warm on his cheek. Then he spoke in a tone so soft and dangerous that it made his blood freeze in his veins, and even the lieutenant's voice trembled.

"You have half an hour. If you are even one second late, the only thing your brother will see on the other side of that wall is a bullet, and you will regret the day you betrayed my confidence."

He shuddered.

* * *

><p>For obvious political reasons, simply walking past the border guards was out of the question, but the lieutenant, who Ludwig had heard was named Toris, or some such, had led them, under cover of darkness, to a makeshift tunnel that had been long since closed. All <em>Stasi<em> guarding this tunnel had been called off, and Gilbert was free to cross through without hindrance. The iron grate that guarded it was unlocked, and they would have privacy for their farewell.

Ha. He made it sound so simple.

As they neared, Toris had stopped in the street, leaning back against a lamppost as he waited, cocking and un-cocking the gun at his waist thoughtfully. He was far enough away to be out of sight, and earshot, and even if he had not been, he did not seem like a threat.

As if it mattered. Ludwig knew he couldn't run.

He'd made a deal.

Gilbert could barely walk and was too distraught to even speak, and Ludwig had all but dragged him the distance, and finally they came to the grate the lieutenant had described to them. It was large, six feet wide, and he realized that it was just part of the ancient, now abandoned sewer system. He peered down, and could see that it was a good ten feet to the bottom. The supporting ladder had long since been removed. Once Gilbert was in it, there was no climbing out.

That was for the best.

Resting Gilbert gently down, he took the grate into his hands, and pulled with all his strength. The sound of iron scraping pavement made him shudder, and brought despondent Gilbert out of his stupor.

Gilbert stared down at the void below like it was going to swallow him whole.

Ludwig extended a hand.

"Come on. I'll help you down."

Gilbert did not budge, bracing his legs firmly against the ground. "I'm not going. Not without you," he said, stubbornly, and Ludwig shook his head in exasperation, feeling the urgency rising.

How long had it been now? The half hour was surely drawing near.

Time, time, time.

They never had enough time.

"I _can't _go! There's no time for this. You _have_ to go now! Go!"

Gilbert shook his head, pale, dirty hair shaking with him. His eyes were defiant past the unshed tears, as though even in his broken state he thought he still wielded some kind of fraternal power over Ludwig. And when Ludwig, agitated, reached out and tried to grab his arm, he wrenched away.

"I can't. I _won't_. Come with me! We can get out of here, together!"

Why did have to be this way? Where had they gone wrong?

"Gilbert!" he cried, as he struggled to keep himself from bursting into tears, "I _can't_! Don't you understand? I can't!" He clenched his hands together in front of his chest in a silent plea, adding, desperately, "Even if we ran now, how far would we get? Don't you realize that they'll find us? They'll shoot you! And _all _of this will have been in vain! I can't go with you this time! _Please_! Please go."

And _still_, Gilbert shook his head, like a spoiled child. "I won't leave you here. ...I know! You should go, and I'll stay."

Stubborn. Foolish. Their time together was gone.

Something shifted in the shadows, and feeling his heart race in fear, he reached the end of his rope and stomped his foot furiously, shrieking, "_GO_!"

Gilbert just stared up at him.

Reaching out, he grabbed Gilbert's collar and yanked him forward, maybe too harshly. Gilbert struggled against him, and had always been the stronger one, but in his weakened state he was no match.

The void loomed out. The final distance between them.

Dragging him over to the grate, Ludwig enveloped the thrashing Gilbert in a crushing embrace and placed a swift kiss on his bloody cheek, for the last time, and then with bruising force threw him unceremoniously down into the dark void.

Gilbert landed hard on his broken hand and shrieked, but Ludwig had little time to be sympathetic.

"Go on!"

As Gilbert tried to pull himself to his feet, he slid the heavy iron back into place, and looked down from above.

Gilbert's pale face shone out from the shadows like a ghost.

"Ludwig! Don't do this to me!" Gilbert tried to reach up, fingers clutching the air aimlessly, and he moaned, "Oh God! I can't... How could I live with myself? You can still leave me! Quick! Help me back up, and I'll stay put. Ludwig!"

He was smiling, and speaking gently, breath visible in the cold, as though easy coaxing would somehow convince Ludwig to turn the tables on this terrible situation. His crimson eyes beheld a certain dreaminess, and Ludwig feared that maybe he had pushed his brother over more edge than one.

"Ludwig, come down."

"_Please_," he whispered, heartbroken, and fell to his knees, gripping the iron bars in his hands as Gilbert looked up at him helplessly. He could not _bear_ that far-off look on Gilbert's face, and whispered, voice thick as his tears finally fell, "You have to go now. There's nothing else you can do for me."

Gilbert's brow came down at his rejection, and he was coming back to reality with a certain frenzy, as his gentle voice steadily rose into a shriek.

"Ludwig! Don't go! Don't leave me! Please! I'm sorry! You were right, I should have waited! Please, make me stay! Don't leave!"

He couldn't bear it any longer, and pulled himself to his feet, taking in as much of Gilbert as he could. He would not see him again.

Their paths had split.

"Goodbye, brother."

Vision blurred and heart pounding, he turned on his heel and fled like a coward, wiping his eyes as Gilbert's faint screams followed him accusingly.

"Ludwig! Don't _go_!"

His heart ached.

Oh.

God.

"_LUDWIG_!"

How had it ever come to this?

Gasping for breath, he skidded into the main street, and the waiting Toris looked over at him, face unreadable. A moment of silence, as Ludwig tried to reach up and dry his face.

Gilbert, like so many times before, was gone.

"Let's go."

No more Alfred. No more Erzsébet. No more Roderich.

And no more Gilbert.

Life had ended.

He hung his head, and walked in step with the short lieutenant, trying to compose himself. Such tears were a disgrace in front of Soviet military. Even in these circumstances.

As they walked in the shadows, Toris looked over at him with a strange expression, brow low and lips pushed out thoughtfully. Ludwig did not meet his eyes, too crestfallen for conversation.

Their footsteps echoed in the street.

"I think you're very brave," Toris finally said, turning his eyes back ahead, but Ludwig, cold and clammy and absolutely faint, disagreed.

When the _Stasi_ office was becoming visible in the distance, he shivered, knowing what lay in wait inside.

He did not feel very brave. He wanted to go _home_.

Gilbert had cost him everything.

It was worth it.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Knocking on a door had never been so hard.

God knows that trudging through the streets of Berlin had been damn hard enough, lonely and injured, holding his broken hand gingerly at the level of his chest, and it was with what little dignity he had left that he had ignored the quiet concerns of passersby.

Gilbert's mind was too focused on how he was going to bring himself to do what was necessary. What he could possibly say. How he would face them.

And now, standing here before Ludwig's apartment door, _knowing _that Ludwig was not inside, he struggled to keep himself from turning tail and crawling away. It would have better saved his pride, but...

There would be time later for self-loathing. For now, they deserved to know what had happened. All of them.

But, _God_, he was so guilty.

They would hate him.

Swallowing his anxiety, he reached up, and knocked, once. He hoped that no one had heard him, and that he could walk off and pretend that he had tried.

But the door wrenched open immediately, and when Erzsébet stood in the frame and laid eyes upon him, his guilt intensified ten fold as she burst into tears.

"_Gilbert_!" she wailed, as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him inside. "Oh! Oh, God, Gilbert, I thought I would never _see_ you again!"

Numb, he allowed her to drag him into Ludwig's immaculate kitchen as she blubbered away, and his stomach lurched when he saw Alfred and Roderich sitting at the table, speaking gently to each other.

They were all here. Sitting together, waiting for Ludwig to return. Instead, they would get _him_.

They wouldn't be happy about it.

When they noticed him, they leapt to their feet, and Alfred came over, tall and worried and babbling away. Gilbert did not hear his words, caught like a deer under Roderich's burning gaze.

The truth was...

He feared Roderich above all else. Their history was complicated.

Because hadn't it been Roderich, after all, who had found Ludwig all those years ago, lost and confused in the street and without parents? Hadn't it been Roderich and Erzsébet who had intended to take him home with them and raise him? And hadn't it been _he _who had risen to the challenge, proclaiming that he wanted a little brother _so _badly, and that he could take good care of a child alone even though he was only seventeen? His parents had just died in that car crash, and he had been _so _lonely.

Ludwig needed _someone_. He had always wanted a little brother.

Fate had given him a second chance at life.

Roderich, always so responsible, had been reluctant to leave Ludwig in his care, but Gilbert was insistent, and Erzsébet had finally convinced the wary ambassador to give him a shot. And after the first few years (under intense supervision, of course) had gone so well, Roderich had finally let him take full custody.

Life had given him a second chance at happiness.

He blew it.

And Roderich sat here now, waiting.

Expecting.

He feared Roderich above _all _else. Because he knew, deep down, that Roderich had been right about him all along. He had never been suited for the role of a guardian. Now he would be forced to admit it.

"Where's Ludwig?" Erzsébet finally whispered, when no one else walked through the door, and he shuddered.

Pulling himself up to his full height, he braced his arms at his sides, looking Roderich in the eyes as long as he could. The gaze was expectant, and daunting, but he gathered together his strength, and whispered, with finality :

"He's not coming back."

The worst words he'd ever had to say. He'd have cried, then, if he hadn't been so numb.

It took a second for his words to resonate, and he dropped his gaze as Alfred staggered back, catching himself against the wall with a dull thud. Gilbert could not bear to meet his eyes, knowing full well what he would see there. Hate. Accusation. Regret. Hurt.

Hopelessness.

He heard Alfred's low, rasping moan.

"What? He _has_ to come back."

Then, as Alfred ran to the door to look out in disbelief, Erzsébet was upon him, pulling him into a firm embrace. It was soothing, if not somewhat mortifying, and he fell to his knees in despair as she buried her face in his neck and murmured, gently, "It's not your fault."

...it wasn't? How?

He longed to believe her, because the alternative was too much to bear. That he had sold Ludwig out. That his own stupid mistakes had doomed the one he had swore he would give his life to protect.

That he had _failed_.

He fell into her chest as she held him tightly, and when he buried his face in her shoulder, she ran her hands up and down his back.

It occurred to him, as he knelt there, that he would never feel Ludwig's hands again.

He could have died.

As she whispered away in his ear, he lifted his head up, and after a moment, he dared himself to open his eyes. Kinda wished he hadn't.

Roderich stood back behind them, arms stiff and straight at his sides, and he stared down at Gilbert with an indescribable expression, jaw clenched so hard that Gilbert could see his pulse racing in his neck.

Tottering on the edge.

Roderich would break soon. Roderich, to whom Ludwig had meant so much. To whom Ludwig had been like a son. Roderich's eye started to twitch, as he tried to keep his breathing under control.

But the hurricane was starting to breach the shore; Gilbert could _see_ it, whirling there in Roderich's eyes.

He could not stand it, and moaned, beseechingly, "Roderich! I'm so... I'm so..."

He couldn't even say it.

'Sorry'.

Yeah, he _was_ sorry, alright. In more ways than one.

Erzsébet's grip upon him suddenly tightened almost protectively, as though she knew what was coming, and after a short stillness Roderich took an unsteady step backwards, shaking his head.

The look on his face was terrible. Like his world had suddenly come to a grinding halt. It was Gilbert's fault. With Roderich, it seemed, it was _always_ his fault. This time, it was true.

Ludwig was gone.

A short silence, and then Roderich's crumbling façade broke with the force of a volcano.

"_You_! How _could_ you?" he began, and his usually cool, suave voice had become a horrible screech of fury.

Gilbert couldn't help but flinch back at his wrath, even in Erzsébet's arms.

"_How could you_? You're so stupid, _Gilbert_! You're so fucking _stupid_! How could you have let this happen? I left him with you because you swore you would _PROTECT HIM_!" Roderich wrenched his fist back and slammed it into the wall with enough force that the hapless drywall collapsed beneath it.

Alfred came rushing back in, and stopped in the threshold of the kitchen, frozen under the horrible sound of Roderich's voice.

"You were supposed to _watch over_ him! You said you could _do_ it! I let you _have_ him! I let you _take_ him! I told you that he would be better off with me, and you still wanted to _keep_ him! Because you did what you always do! You think about yourself first! You knew what was best for him, but you wanted to give it a go anyway! 'Oh, yeah, I can do it, sure, it's no fuckin' problem to raise a _kid'_! WELL! Look! Look where it got us! Look what's happened! I would have taken him from you and took him to Vienna if I knew this would happen! A _DOG _could have done a better goddamn job of parenting! I should never have _trusted _you!"

It was true. Oh, God, it was _true_, and he buried his face in Erzsébet's chest in shame, and her whisper of, "Don't listen to him," was lost to the universe as he bowed under Roderich's righteous fury.

Because Roderich was right.

_Together._

"It should be _you _over there! He should _never _have had to go over there to get you, if you could just be more fuckin' careful! But you're such a showboat! This whole thing is your goddamn fault! _The whole thing_! You can't do _anything_ right! I could have gotten you a visa if you would have just _sat there and waited_! But you don't know _how_ to wait, and you just had to show off to the whole fuckin' world, and now! Now..." Roderich suddenly fell against the wall, clenching his fingers in his hair as his anger was completely exhausted, and he moaned, miserably, "Oh _God_! Oh, God. I wish it were you. I wish it were you. It should have been _you_. I wish it were you."

And then Roderich, stern, immovable, collected Roderich, fell forward atop the table and burst into tears, and Gilbert retreated inside of himself with guilt, and remembered nothing more.

_Forever._

He shut down his mind.

_I'm sorry._

Reality was too painful.

Ludwig was gone.

The truth was, he had never been worth anything.

* * *

><p>Sleep, if one has been deprived of it, quickly becomes the most important sustenance for the body. More so than food, and even water.<p>

Sleep.

All he wanted to do was _sleep_.

And if he had been given a choice, Ludwig would not have refused the bloody concrete slab on which Gilbert had been tethered to; he was so desperately tired that he could have slept soundly on a bed of nails.

As it turned out, he had to do neither, and, to his great surprise, he had been escorted, without cuffs, straight out of the _Stasi_ building and into a large military vehicle, where he sat next to the silent Toris and across from the Russian general. There had been no words, and the Russian's unreadable gaze had proven too much; after several minutes of intense staring, he had finally admitted defeat and lowered his eyes to his floor.

The car exhaust drifted up into the cold night. When they were settled, the car started off.

Lurching forward.

He could feel the Russian's eyes upon him, but refused to look over.

He was _so_ sleepy and so dazed and so numb that he couldn't really even think about what was going on around him, let alone where he was going. The movements of the car, even with this dire situation, were proving to be a little too tempting.

He only bowed his head for a second. It was a second too long; even though his mind was screaming at him to stay on guard and alert, his body had other ideas, and he drifted into sleep in a mere blink.

Deep, and dreamless. Merciful.

Sleep.

All he wanted.

The moon was on high, circled by white clouds. Stars broke through the gaps. Cold and quiet. Calm. Tranquil. Dreamy. An ideal night for a car ride. No matter where it would lead to.

He lost track of time.

Rocking back and forth.

He could have slept for _years_.

Some time passed.

He did not know where he was, or how long it had taken to get there; all he knew was that, suddenly, someone was shaking him, and when he opened his bleary eyes, he found himself face to face with a somber Toris. It took a second for his sleep-shocked mind to focus, and, as he looked this way and that, Ludwig realized that he had fallen against him in his repose. He pulled away, stiffly, and was embarrassed.

Toris didn't say a word.

Looking across the way, as the ghostly blue streetlamps filled the vehicle with light at the end of every block, he saw that the Russian, too, had fallen asleep. He was sitting straight up and completely silent, arms crossed, and only his bowed head gave away his state, swaying to and fro every time the vehicle lurched.

Feeling a bit more at ease without the suffocating presence, Ludwig turned back to Toris, and rasped, wearily, "Where are we going?"

For all it mattered.

Toris looked over, his eyes lit up a dark silver in the streetlamps, studying Ludwig with a peculiar interest, and then he whispered, "To the Czechoslovakian border. We leave the GDR in the morning."

Wait... What?

"Why am I coming with you?"

At this, Toris turned his attention to the sleeping Russian, and he only shrugged a shoulder, a look of distaste upon his face.

"Because _he _wants you to."

The exhaustion he felt was not strong enough to stifle his nausea, and he could not help but wonder if the Russian's threat of Siberia had just been a joke. They would probably just stop on some remote stretch of road along the way and shoot him quick in the back of the head.

Falling back into the seat, he turned his head and looked out the window at the passing streets, and realized that a quick and painless death would most likely be a blessing. He would not struggle against them.

His mission was complete. Gilbert was safe.

He had done what he had set out to do.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned into the seat and slipped back into the realm of sleep, Gilbert's long-gone cries echoing through his ears.

_Come back._

It would still be worth it.

_Don't go._

It was all worth it.

Because Gilbert would have done the same for him, had it been his decision. Gilbert would have risked everything. Given up everything.

Anything.

He fell into space.

Drifted.

As he slept, Gilbert's voice evaporated into the atmosphere.

He slept for hours. As he sat there, vulnerable and helpless, the vehicle suddenly came to a quick halt, and he started from sleep with a deep sigh.

Not enough time. He could have slept more. The darkness of the empty night streets were suddenly lit up.

His head hurt.

Squinting his eyes in the bright lights of a close building, he looked out of the window and realized that they were in front of what could have been a very high-end hotel or some such.

Odd.

"Get out," Toris said, and he obeyed, not having much other choice. The door creaked in the cold air as he pushed it open, and he shivered as he stood out on the sidewalk apprehensively, his thin shirt doing little to protect him from the chilly air.

He stood there, feeling like a damn fool, as he waited for Toris to step out.

Here, the skies were clear. The stars, beyond the hazy glow, were bright.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, and as he gazed up at the grand hotel with a sense of foreboding, something heavy was suddenly draped over his shoulders. Jumping in alarm, he wrenched his neck over and saw that the Russian had come up to his side (_how_? he had not heard him move) and had placed his own long military coat above him.

For a second, he froze, as the Russian's eyes bored into his own, and then the general leaned in and whispered, neatly, "_Ne boisya_."

He shuddered at the voice, rough from sleep, but reached up and grabbed the coat nonetheless. His instilled politeness would not allow him to refuse this small kindness, no matter the circumstance.

Damn.

"Thanks," he grumbled, and the Russian's face lit up with a pleasant, if not unnerving, smile. Toris watched them patiently during this exchange, and then took charge with a long stride forward.

"Come on," he said, walking off abruptly, and Ludwig sped after him, leery of being left alone with the other.

The building was warm, and well-lit. He felt stupid and out of place, walking beside of these glossy military men, in his torn, dirty clothes, his hair caked with dried mud and his boots caked with earth. People glanced at him as he passed. How embarrassing. Mercifully, the discomfort was short-lived. One quick elevator ride later, they emerged onto the top floor, which Ludwig realized with chagrin was only one very large, very elaborate room. And very expensive, to be sure. It was the suite reserved for only those of power.

One night in this room would probably have cost Roderich his annual salary.

Such luxuries made him sick to his stomach. With the money spent here, he could have bribed the entire GDR border defense to just let Gilbert waltz through.

Shameful.

Everything was perfectly in place under the high ceiling, lit up with a crystal chandelier, and in the parlor sat a desk, engraved with the Soviet coat of arms.

The Russian must have had this room especially reserved the whole year round, for tours of duty.

The perks of being a general, no doubt.

As he stood, still and uncertain of himself in this massive room, the Russian passed him by and threw himself down heavily at the waiting desk. For the first time that night, he could see the hour on the clock; already three in the morning.

He could only hope, as he swayed back and forth wearily, that they would have a shred of mercy and just let him go to sleep.

The Russian had other ideas, and waved his hand towards the empty chair in front of the desk.

"Sit," Toris said, and it was not a request.

Clenching the heavy coat over himself protectively, he fell down into the wooden chair, and the Russian leaned forward eagerly, intertwining his finger on the table before him.

A moment of silence, as they stared at each other.

Ludwig was able to take him in for the first time, in the light, and shuddered.

Physically, he was attractive. Late twenties or early thirties, perhaps, with pale, platinum blond hair that nearly matched his own, kept neatly groomed and smoothed. He was tall, very tall, and strongly built, with wide shoulders. Pale, lavender-colored eyes, framed by thick lashes. A straight, regal nose, bumping up slightly in the middle. His skin was pale and clean, perhaps a bit weathered by years of exposure to harsh winds, and when he smiled, his teeth were straight and white, although his canines were too high up, sticking out a bit. Gilbert had always called them 'vampire teeth', and they made the Russian appear younger and more awkward than he was when he decided to show them. Well-dressed. Every detail in place. Fresh-faced and bathed in a subtle cologne.

A seemingly normal man, in the prime of his life, young and strong and virile. He looked fine, so why, then, did something about him _feel _so wrong?

Maybe it was the way he way he kept his hands loose and ready at his sides, or the way his shoulders were always squared. Maybe it was the impressive, almost too elaborate dress, or the way his constant, soft smiles seemed to be hiding a darker sentiment. Or perhaps it was his eyes, and how they gave away absolutely _nothing_, whether he was smiling or not, and yet the violet depths were always churning.

The atmosphere around him was cold, and overpowering. One would do well to avoid finding themselves on his bad side.

But, Ludwig wondered as he sat, looking about anxiously, where exactly did _he _find himself?

He wasn't so sure anymore. He realized that it did not matter. His fate had been sealed, either way, the second he had decided that Gilbert's freedom was more valuable than his own. He hung his head, and wondered if Gilbert had made it back safely.

He needed a doctor. Erzsébet would take good care of him.

"What's your name?"

Gilbert would have done it for him.

"Name?"

He was sure of it.

He stared blankly at the desk, lost in his thoughts, and then the Russian reached out, snapping his fingers smartly in his face. He started as though from sleep, and when he looked up, he was caught under a stern, impatient gaze.

"_Name_?" Toris repeated again, and when Ludwig looked over at him, dumbly, the silent warning in his eyes was clearly visible.

He longed to be defiant, even now, and keep his mouth shut, but Toris' look clearly advised against insubordination, and suddenly a strong hand had reached out and grabbed his chin, wrenching his head back.

Eyes bored into his own.

And there was something about that gaze...

The Russian's brow was ever lowering, and his iron grip was painful as their eyes met.

Ludwig broke first, for the second time.

Finally, he relented, and muttered, monotonously, "Ludwig."

The hand released, and Ludwig kept his chin high, ignoring the ache proudly.

"Last name?"

"I don't know."

Toris' eyes narrowed, but Ludwig was not leading.

Hell, if he knew his real last name, and not just that familial fondness that Gilbert had christened him with, his life would have been a lot easier.

Couldn't change that.

"I don't know," he repeated, leaning back into his seat. "I was an orphan. I never knew my parents' names. You can put whatever you want."

There was a short silence, as the Russian's pen scribbled and scratched, and then the interrogation continued.

"Date of birth?"

"I don't _know_," he repeated again, and now his agitation was growing. "I just said I don't know anything about my childhood."

Were they deaf?

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, I guess. Give or take a year."

His foot tapped furiously in aggravation. Or maybe nervousness. He felt _sick_. He just wanted to go home.

The Russian in front of him seemed immune to his rude tone, and merely continued to write with what seemed to be glee. He glanced up, occasionally, and the lopsided smile on his face was almost more unnerving than the silence.

As if he knew something that Ludwig did not.

"Ludwig, ah?" The Russian pointed to himself, and said, cheerily, "Ivan."

...Ivan?

He barely contained the roll of his eyes that threatened to come, and looked away. He had no desire to hold a conversation with this Russian, even less so to use his first name. Such informality was undesirable, and careless on his part.

As if.

A clearing of a throat, and the questions abruptly continued.

"Occupation?"

"Student," he lied.

How would they know?

"Place of birth?"

His patience was wearing thin.

"Munich, I think."

"National Identification Number?"

"I don't..."

That was enough.

Scoffing, Ludwig looked around at them, as the anger rose up in his chest. "I don't _have _one! How the hell many different ways can I say 'orphan'? Why are you asking me all this?" he cried, as he leaned forward and slammed his palm on the desk. "I don't understand! Aren't you just going to send me to Siberia? Why are you asking me all of these questions? Just send me off already! _Ivan_."

Far from angered, the dumb Red before him actually seemed _glad_, through everything else, that Ludwig had used his name.

Oh, God.

Setting his pen down, the Russian leaned back, and observed him up and down with a strange, unsettling intensity. A gaze that seemed to be more of appreciation than curiosity.

Ludwig did not like it, and crossed his arms to say as much, feeling the first pricks of fear in his chest. He did not know exactly what was going to happen to him, but he suddenly hoped that it _would _just be Siberia.

Why couldn't they have just shot him?

Snorting, the general reached down and pulled open a drawer on his desk, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka. Two small glasses followed, and he filled them to the brim, his smile never faltering. Speaking softly in Russian, he pushed one forward, studying Ludwig as though he were trying to solve a puzzle.

"A toast, to you."

Ludwig refused the glass, looking about the room with a sudden, suffocating desperation. Could he get out of here? Not through the barred window. They were far too narrow anyhow. Toris blocked the door, leaning against it with a gun at his waist. And the Russian, who now leaned back into his chair, propping his boots up on the desk as he raised his glass up, would be next to impossible to overpower.

He felt frustrated, and when Toris saw him fidgeting in his chair, he shook his head, once.

"Don't move," he whispered in warning, and the Russian's eyes darted back and forth between them with amusement, as he downed the contents of his glass with one tilt of his head. He poured another, and murmured something, as he leered at Ludwig.

"It's rude," Toris said, anxiously, "to refuse a drink in your honor."

This was getting ridiculous. And there was his headache again, returning with blinding force.

"I don't want to _drink_," he moaned, wearily, as he reached up to clench his dirty hair, "I just want to _sleep_. Just let me sleep."

He bowed his head, and let his hands fall into his lap. Exhaustion took over.

A short conversing in Russian, and Toris pushed himself off the door.

"Forgive my rudeness. Of course, you must be tired. I'll show you to the bedroom. This way."

He did not hesitate to follow, and even if it was just a trick, he would not risk the chance that maybe he really would get to lie down in an actual bed. He stood up, wobbled, found his footing, and was led off.

Toris was as good as his word.

The bedroom was undoubtedly as well-furnished as the rest of the floor, but Ludwig took no notice. When he saw the bed, he made a beeline towards it, and it took every strand of self-control within him to keep from throwing himself down.

Self-control, and the two men standing behind were another motivating factor.

He turned an impatient eye to them, but they were unmoving, and he finally muttered, "Was that _all_? Or am I allowed to lie down? I would like to sleep, if that's alright."

"So sleep," Toris grumbled back, and, as the Russian sat in a nearby chair, holding his chin in his palm, he took his leave.

Clenching his jaw, Ludwig turned his agitation to the sitting Russian.

"Well?" he snapped, irritably and nervously. "Aren't you going too?"

There was only silence, as the general smiled up at him tranquilly, and probably without comprehension.

"Go on!"

He did not, and instead pointed to the bed, whispering, "_Zasnite_."

The air was tense, and his exhaustion was too great. He had no more will to argue, and with a sigh he collapsed onto the bed, as filthy as he was, fully-clothed with his dirty boots still on his feet. He had little care to get comfortable, and had only the strength to send the leering Russian his dirtiest glare as he drifted into sleep.

The Russian stared at him serenely, and did not stir from his perch, not even once.

The whole night.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Old times.

Faint memories.

Distant days of melancholy.

Passing shadows.

Sometimes, when he had stood in front of the mirror on cold mornings, he had looked at his pale reflection, pushing away those whispers that had floated in his ears, and he had wondered if maybe there was something _wrong_ with him.

If there had _always_ been something wrong with him. There had always been something wrong with Gilbert, sure, but...

Maybe there was something bad within him.

He wished sometimes when he was younger, even when Gilbert had embraced him in those brotherly moments and slung him over his shoulder with laughter, that he had been somewhere else.

Somewhere he belonged. He'd never felt like he belonged.

But Gilbert's promises of being together for eternity...

That had always made it a lot easier.

The mornings when Gilbert had actually been in the house, when he hadn't spent the night out drunk in some bar, when he hadn't been passed out in some alley high on pills, but had actually been there in the bed, holding Ludwig to his chest as they slept...

Those mornings had been the best. Those mornings had come far too soon.

Morning always came far too soon.

Like now.

Late fall was proving to be colder this year than usual, and already, snow was starting to drift down from the grey skies outside the hotel. Everything was still. Silent. There could be no better morning on which to sleep in, and what he would have given to be able to stay in bed for a little longer.

Even if Gilbert wasn't in the bed this time.

A sudden voice intruded on his rest.

"Hey, wake up. Time to go."

Who was bothering him? Didn't they know how tired he was?

_Leave me alone._

Grunting, Ludwig rolled over onto his side, seeking reprieve from the hand that was shaking him.

"Get up."

Why didn't they understand how _tired_ he was? Whoever the hell it was that was bothering him; Alfred maybe. The voice above could barely register in his exhausted mind, and he reached up, swatting the hand away irritably.

"Get out of my room, you jerk," he muttered, blearily, and there was a sudden silence.

And then a sharp click filled the room, and something cool and hard suddenly pressed into his temple.

"I said _get up_."

He tensed up as his heart started to race.

No matter how tired he was, how dazed, he knew damn well what it was against his head, the feel of steel, and he opened his eyes, looking over his shoulder warily.

Standing above him, clean and dressed for the call of duty, the Soviet army pin on his breast, stood Toris. The gun he held meant business, cocked and ready, but his stance seemed only half-hearted. Not particularly threatening. He almost looked...

"It's time to go," he repeated, and withdrew his firearm.

Defeated.

Heaving an inward sigh of relief, Ludwig pulled himself upright at the waist, the adrenaline in his veins waking him up better than coffee ever could, and his whole body _ached_. Looking down, he saw that someone had put a blanket over him in the night. He had an idea of who, and glanced over, but the chair that had held the Russian was vacant.

Another thing to be grateful for.

"It's already late. We have to get going. You can sleep some more in the car."

"Oh," Ludwig rasped, a bit testily, "Why bother? Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead."

Toris just snorted.

He pulled himself to his feet, wobbling a little, and was led straight towards the elevator.

Not even a shower first? Great. He wanted to die clean, at least, if that was what was gonna happen.

He looked about, as they wound though the lobby.

The Russian was nowhere to be seen.

Good.

He straightened up and tried to catch Toris' gaze, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could connive his way into getting set free. Toris did not seem as strong-willed as he had first imagined, and appeared as though he could be easily manipulated, no matter how severe his uniform was. And he was _young_, and his eyes were calm and gentle. Approachable.

His attempts were in vain, and Toris only stared straight ahead, ignoring his prying gaze with cool efficiency.

He was disappointed, and when they stepped outside, he saw the military vehicle parked in front, waiting. Looking around, at the city buildings, he tried to gauge not only where he was, but whether or not a mad dash would be possible. He looked this way and that, discreetly.

There were many alleys.

Maybe.

Toris seemed to read his mind, and he could hear the click of the gun's hammer.

"Don't even," he warned, lowly. "Don't forget you're in the Eastern Bloc now. You won't get far."

Approachable? Easily manipulated? Maybe not. Well, he'd always been a terrible judge of character.

Ludwig slouched in defeat, and when he walked forward and stepped inside the vehicle, the Russian (Ivan, he reminded himself) was sitting patiently, hands folded neatly in his lap. He bowed his head, refusing to meet the pale eyes, and as the car started moving, he listened to the two speak quietly amongst themselves.

Their voices were soft and gentle and very smooth, and it surprised him a little that two voices like that could ever belong to hard-nosed Soviet military men.

Strange.

He leaned his head against the window, as they crooned away. He did not understand, but he was certain that he heard the word 'Dresden'. So, he was in Dresden, then, and they were driving to the border. And he would pass into Czechoslovakia, leaving Germany behind.

He had never been outside his homeland in his entire life. His stomach churned with nervousness. Fear. Homesickness. Where would he end up? Thinking about it made him sick, and, when he felt eyes upon him, he looked up.

They were staring at him, coolly, and Toris asked, suddenly, "You don't have any papers on you, do you?"

He shook his head, and they resumed their conversation. After a moments consideration, he realized they were wondering if he had a passport. He felt his pulse race; he could not pass the border without one. They would not let him through. They would turn him away. What were they going to do with him, then? Shoot him?

"Are you going to leave me here?" he wondered aloud, and Toris snorted.

"Hardly."

He furrowed his brow in agitation, and leaned back, crossing his arms above his chest.

Damn, damn, damn.

There was nothing more frustrating than evasive half-answers, and the Russian was staring him down with alarming intensity. Smiling away, as if everything were right in the world.

Ludwig turned his head, and averted his eyes. How unnerving.

Unpleasant.

The border was ever nearing, and, as the minutes passed, he prepared himself for the inevitable, feeling a rise of hope in his chest.

The first in years.

He could see it now; they would stop the car, and ask everyone to present papers, and when he didn't have any they would escort him out and into the building. They would interrogate him, and he would give them nothing.

...and they would send him back from whence he came.

Simple as that. He couldn't cross.

_Wait for me._

Gilbert was waiting.

His palms began to sweat as the massive vehicle lurched to a halt at the gate. Glancing out the window, he could see the toll-booth, and the guard had stepped out and was approaching. The driver's window lowered ahead, and the border guard leaned in, with a greeting. His heart was hammering so fiercely that he was certain it would leap out of his chest, as the driver stuck papers through the window, chatting conversationally.

He waited.

With heavy footsteps, the border guard walked back towards them and looked through the rear window, and the Russian saluted him, smiling cheerily.

So close. He felt himself sitting up straight in his seat, ready for the inevitable. Feeling salvation on the horizon, Ludwig shifted his weight anxiously as he waited for the window to come down.

It did not.

And then the guard saluted back, and he could hear the creaking of the gate as it was lifted, and then, with a dizzying jolt of horror, he realized they were driving straight through.

Straight through. Oh, God.

Numbly, he looked over and met Toris' eyes, and the brunet only whispered, "Immunity."

Of course.

He had been foolish not to realize that a general of the Soviet military would not be subject to common searches. There was no need of papers for a marked military vehicle.

His hope fled, and was replaced with a horrible sense of dread.

There would be no escape. No way out. The thought of never seeing his friends again...

Of never seeing Gilbert again...

It had been easy before, when he had been so numb with lack of sleep that he could barely process information.

Now, it _hurt_. He would never see Gilbert again.

Ivan's knowing, satisfied smile only served to worsen his mood, and he fell into despondency, going back into space, barely noticing when the car stopped a short while later at the train station.

The loud station and the horns of the trains couldn't break through his fog. He was just dazed. Some part of him had just stopped caring.

If Gilbert was gone...

His fate was no longer in his control, and he walked alongside them placidly when they left the vehicle behind and went into a private train car.

...then why even bother?

Outside, the snow was deepening.

He did not remember clearly stepping into the train, or sitting down, or leaning his head against the glass window, losing track of his environment. He just wanted to _stop_. Everything.

If everything couldn't go back to the way it was, then he wanted it to just stop.

End.

He wanted it to be over with.

Time passed.

Blurry shapes outside the window that had been fogged with his breath. Who knew how long he had been swimming through his thoughts, and he started when Toris suddenly said to him, "We're almost to Prague."

Coming back to earth, Ludwig lifted his head up and looked over, only muttering a dumb, "Huh?"

Toris was watching him with that same strange interest, and he inclined his head to the window, face guarded. "Have you ever been to Prague?"

He shook his head.

"It's a beautiful city," Toris whispered, almost wistfully. "I've been twice. If you ever see it, in spring... You won't ever forget it. The clock tower, either."

The clock tower. He'd seen pictures of it books.

_Hey, if we ever get some time together, I'll take ya down to Prague and get some pictures of ya in front of that big ol' clock! _

He didn't feel like seeing Prague anymore. He just wanted to go home.

Toris turned his eyes to the snow drifting down, and for a moment, he almost smiled.

"The first time I went there was in the spring. I was there for almost a month. That was...a long time ago. One of the best times of my life, I think."

There was something alarming in Toris' soft voice, a haunting loneliness and longing and maybe some kind of lunacy, and Ludwig could not help but look over at the Russian in concern.

Should they be speaking like this? But Ivan was asleep, just as he had slept on the ride to Dresden, unhearing and unknowing.

Toris blabbered on.

"Of course, we're not stopping in Prague this time. We'll pass straight through. We're going to Brno. I haven't ever been there. I hope it's everything I expect it to be."

He did not contribute much to this conversation, but he had the sense that Toris did not really even notice. He was speaking more to himself, anyway, as though it had been years since he had had anyone to _really _talk to, freely.

Ludwig, for all of his fogginess, felt a sudden unease, and something was not right.

Something was _wrong_. With Toris. With these men. With this whole situation.

Something wasn't right.

Catching his eye in a rare moment of emotion, Toris asked, strangely, "Ludwig, right?

He nodded.

"Have you ever been homesick, Ludwig?"

Not before.

He'd always felt strange, and like he hadn't belonged, but he hadn't ever felt homesick, because he had never known another home.

He was homesick now. The feeling was strange, and heartbreaking. An awful darkness.

"Yes," he muttered, and Toris seemed oddly _comforted_, as though his confirmation was a relief.

As if being homesick were something unacceptable.

"If you ever get back home one day," Toris began, in a slow, frightening voice, "I hope...that it's the same for you as it was before. I hope nothing changes. I hope that it's still there. Home. Your home. I hope it's there for you."

A strange comment.

The atmosphere was dampening, and darkening, and he returned his attention to the window, watching the snow fall with silence. There was nothing more he felt like saying.

He just wanted to go home. Where everyone was waiting.

_I'll come back. Promise._

He zoned.

Time passed, Prague came and went, and still the Russian slept, head bobbing up and down with the motion of the train.

Ludwig was resigned to let things go as they would, too disheartened to do much else and too apathetic to really care.

Until Toris started to speak again.

His voice barely above a whisper, he suddenly broke the silence with a strangled, "You won't ever see Berlin again."

Feeling his blood froze in his veins, he snapped his head over, and the look of _blankness_ in Toris' eyes made him shiver.

What had made his mood shift so suddenly? As if Toris had suddenly checked out of the building.

"If I were braver," he added, quietly, "I would do you a favor and just shoot you now where you stand."

He cocked his gun absently at his waist, and the jolt of adrenaline made Ludwig feel dizzy.

"It would be better, maybe. I think it might be better if I shoot you."

Everything was cold.

"I don't understand," Ludwig finally breathed, alarmed, but the strange nothing in Toris' eyes fled as quickly as it had come, and he scoffed, shaking his head as his hand slowly lifted from his gun.

Relief.

"Never mind," Toris said, curtly, and fell back into the seat. "It doesn't matter."

But those words could not simply be forgotten, and he sensed something terrible on the horizon.

Something wrong.

Dark water.

The air of defeat and unpredictability and breathless sorrow that lingered over Toris was _frightening_. And it made him wonder...

Would he end up like that? Blank and void of emotion, living only to have commands barked at him? To be a shadow?

Never. He would do everything in his power to avoid it. To be like that.

He could not just let this train take him away. He would not go down without a fight. Gilbert had always teased him for being so stubborn, so why now was he letting his depression lead him to oblivion? That wasn't who he was. He'd never given up before.

Even through all of those awful times, those terrible stretches of depression, even watching life pass him by and ignore him as it treated others well, he had never given up.

He'd never swallowed the whole bottle of pills. Even if sometimes he had wanted to.

He hadn't quit. And he couldn't quit now. Because Gilbert was safe now. He had to get out.

Feeling the overwhelming desperation growing inside of him, Ludwig looked out the window; forests. Trees as far as the eye could see. He did not know where they were, but it had only been an hour or so since they had passed through Prague, so civilization could not be that far away. A place like this.

The snow was already a foot or so high, covering the ground and weighing down the pine tree branches.

Icicles hung from the side of the train. Bitterly cold. Anyone that got lost in the forest, in this weather...

Death was a certainty, without a clear head and if help was not found soon. So, then. How desperate _was _he?

He looked over at Ivan, unreadable and menacing, even in sleep, and then at Toris, staring ahead listlessly, and knew.

He knew. He would not go to Brno. Under any circumstances.

Gathering up his bravery, he pulled himself to his feet with zeal, trying to keep his wits about him. Toris leapt up with him, alarmed, hand flying down to his gun as he tensed, expecting a confrontation.

He would only have one chance. As they said, move it or lose it.

He was movin'.

Loosening his stance into one of non-threatening compliance, Ludwig turned to Toris and whispered, politely, "May I go to the restroom, please?"

The alarm dispersed, and Toris sighed in annoyance.

"Alright. Follow me."

He did, and when the door to the car was pushed opened, he observed his surroundings. The wall that connected them was not particularly thick, but Ivan was asleep, so that was one obstacle out of the way. And the door that would lead to the outside was tantalizingly close, only a few feet away. All he had to do was push it open, slip out, and find a good place to jump.

Tuck and roll was his only option, and then he would disappear into the thick forest and walk until he found a town.

There was only one thing blocking him from the freedom he craved :

Little Toris.

He glanced over as they walked, and observed. Even though Toris had a gun, he was small and presumably good-natured, beyond his moodiness, and probably easily overpowered. Hardly threatening once disarmed. Not a great challenge.

"Hurry up."

Looking up, he saw that they had reached the restroom, and he took a breath to steady himself.

"Toris, right?"

Now.

"...yeah."

Or never.

All he needed was one second of distraction.

"Are _you _homesick, Toris?"

It was meant to rattle him, and it worked; Toris opened his mouth, lost his voice, and then, fatefully, he lowered his eyes.

There it was.

His long, arduous journey here had sapped his strength, lost in that endless death tunnel, but he still had enough left to do what needed to be done. Clenching his fist, he pulled his arm back and, bracing his feet, he sucker punched the unsuspecting Toris on the side of his head as hard as he could.

A dull thud.

The force of it knocked Toris backwards onto the floor, and, after a moment of panic, Ludwig heaved a sigh of relief when he did not get back up.

He was out cold.

"Sorry," he grumbled, as he stepped over the unconscious lieutenant (even though he really wasn't sorry), and with fervor he yanked the door open and stepped out into the cold air. The change in temperature was dizzying, and he gripped the railing, staring into the snow-covered forest in temporary shock.

God, it was colder than he had imagined.

But he could not linger, and if Ivan woke up before he jumped, he was done for. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he grabbed the top of the gate that guarded the metal steps, and pulled it back.

The ground was moving by so quickly. He had to be careful. If he injured himself in the process then he would get nowhere.

He braced his legs, and tried to jump.

He froze up.

Damn. Harder than it looked.

"C'mon! You can do it," he urged himself, and, with an inhale and a shake of his head, he squinted his eyes shut, loosened his grip on the railing, took a step back, and leapt as far as he could.

_Go._

He connected with the ground with painful force and cried out, and only the soft snow kept his ribs safe from breakage. Rolling down the hill, he felt like he was hitting the train itself.

Rolling.

After what felt like minutes, when he finally stopped rolling, he could only lay on his back, gasping for air that would not come. He had had the wind knocked out of him, and stared up at the grey sky as time slowed, too stunned to move.

Shock.

He could hear only a shrill whistle in his ears, and he felt himself drifting into sleep as the snow threatened to close in around him.

Black crept in the corners of his vision. White skies. Snow drifted down, hitting his eyelashes.

His back hurt.

_Get outta here!_

...he was really tired. Maybe he could go to sleep after all.

_GO!_

With a jolt, he sat up, gasping as air finally filled his lungs. His hearing soon followed, and he looked up and watched the locomotive go by, loud and unstoppable, the screeching of wheels grinding the tracks filling the air.

A breathless smile crept over his face, as he squinted in the white light of the snow, and with effort he finally hauled himself onto his feet.

The plumes of white smoke hung above. In a second, the train was far away.

Gone.

He was free. He had won. And by God, it felt really fuckin' great.

Laughing to himself, he shook his head to clear it, and staggered forward, and even the pounding in his head could not dampen the burn of victory in his veins.

It had been so easy! So easy. For all of that, for all of that torment and all of that crying, to think that getting away had been that easy.

The snow started to fall inside of his shoes.

But he was not out of danger yet, and when his body recovered from the shock, he looked about, picked a blind direction, and ran. He didn't care where he was going. Anywhere was better. He plunged into the forest.

He did not look back.

Pushing through the tree branches, he was confident that he would soon find the other end of the forest, and could not keep the smile from lighting up his face. There was no brushy undergrowth to fight through, and he passed easily in between the mighty, ancient trunks. Only a few branches here and there, and the rest was trudging through the snow.

He was confident.

In this modern world, forests weren't vast enough for someone to get lost for so long that they died.

Right?

The snow was getting higher. And the trees were still numerous.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, he looked up at the sky. White, as far as he could see. There was no sign that it was going to stop. It was likely to snow all day and all night.

He had to hurry. Carrying on, he tried his best to keep walking straight. Getting turned around would be an enormous problem.

Everything looked exactly the same.

All the trees were the same.

The wind was picking up.

His smile waned, and the cold was creeping up on him. The adrenaline that had kept him warm had already run its course, and now he shivered as his fingers began to numb.

Ah, hell. Maybe it had been _too_ easy.

He walked. For how long, he could not say. Maybe an hour, yet still the trees refused to thin, and he felt the first prick of anxiety in his chest.

He had underestimated this forest's girth.

Tucking his hands under his armpits in a desperate attempt to protect them, he slowed to a halt, panting heavily as the icy air stung his lungs.

He was so cold.

He was not dressed for this weather, gloveless and hatless, and he had foolishly left the Russian's coat in the train. As he wrapped his arms around his body in vain, he wondered if he had made a mistake. It was so much colder than he had anticipated, there were no villages in sight, and his shirt was so thin he may as well have been wearing paper.

He took a great, stinging breath, and walked on.

Two hours. Three. Four.

He stopped again. He could barely breathe. His lungs felt like they were burning. Standing, bent over at the waist and hands beneath his arms, he stared down at the white snow, and really started to panic.

He was in trouble. He needed to keep moving. Stopping would only bring the cold on faster.

He started walking again, determined, but quickly stopped, looking down with a furrowed brow.

With alarm, he realized that he could not feel his legs, and as he tried to force himself on, his gait was awkward and unsteady, as he struggled to stay standing. He could only walk a few steps before he had to stop yet again, and his shivering became uncontrollable.

His body was shutting down.

Looking up at the sky, he could see the worst outcome :

Night.

The night was approaching. Quickly. The white skies had turned dark grey.

And the snow just kept coming.

He was tired.

Bending at his waist, he rested his hands on his knees as he gathered himself, and the realization crept over him that he would _not _get out of this forest before he froze to death.

There was no way he'd last the night. Not dressed like this.

His fingers were red and numb. He could not feel his face. His feet ached dully in his wet shoe. Snow covered his shoulders and eyelashes, and his hair stuck firmly to his scalp with the weight of the ice that was glazing it.

Cold.

Gilbert was waiting for him, and it was only crazy desperation that forced him to wobble forward.

He tried to go on, as best he could. Maybe a half hour. Maybe an hour. Hell. Maybe ten minutes.

He could barely see for the snow, and fell short when a sudden shadow loomed over him, even in the darkness.

He looked up, and felt his breath leave him. A great, dead tree stood before him, tall and dark and imposing, wide branches spreading out into the sky like craggy hands.

A gallows tree.

It was surely an omen, and as his strength left him for good, he fell to his knees before it, overwhelmed with a sudden urge to sleep.

He was spent. Nothing left. He did not fight it, and lied down in the snow, resting his face against one of the huge roots that jutted from the ground. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

This was, after all, as good a place to lie down and die as any.

He had tried. He had failed.

_You promised._

...sorry.

As light-headedness overtook him, he pictured his brother's face, and felt, if not peaceful, then at least satisfied.

He had saved Gilbert. That was enough.

As he drifted into the darkness, the soft snow covering his fallen body, he could swear that, beyond his delirious thoughts, he heard something crunching across the ground.

Footsteps?

Maybe just wildlife. Coming to see how long it would take for him to die.

Twigs snapping beneath the snow. The tree branches swayed.

Then someone whispered, voice drifting eerily in the wind, but he was too far gone to open his eyes to see who it was.

He didn't really care. He had nothing left.

Exhaling the last of his strength, he let the dark take over as a gentle voice hovered above his consciousness. He could only pray, absurdly, that it was Gilbert, coming to his rescue like a big brother should.

Dizziness.

"_Byednyazhka_..."

...Gilbert?

Warm hands ran over his face and then engulfed him, and as he was lifted up into the air, he slipped away, and time was lost.

_Together. _


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Cold.

_I'm waiting for you._

Everything was so cold.

_Hey, Ludwig, you comin' or not?_

Lethargy. He felt like he was pushing his way through a field of cotton. His chest ached.

_Get up._

His head swam, and for a delirious moment, he could swear that Gilbert was calling out for him.

_Come on!_

Why? Was he late for something? And why was it was _so _cold? Merciless and absolutely numbing.

Oh, Gilbert.

What had he gotten himself into? Where was Gilbert when he needed him? Gilbert had always had excuses about why he could never be there. Why he went out, instead of staying home.

He missed those mornings.

"Gilbert... I can't wake up."

He couldn't seem to open his eyes. He had never felt more exhausted in his entire life. Every muscle ached with a dull throb, and he did not have the strength even to shiver.

It hurt to breathe. This might have been what dying felt like.

At least Gilbert had come, for once, to see him across that river. He wasn't alone. He could feel it.

Reaching up with great effort, still well in the depths of sleep, Ludwig ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as the pain blazed up. His head threatened to split open at any moment, and even the slightest movement was agonizing.

He was going to vomit.

_See? I told you that we would be together..._

What had he done to feel this way? Gilbert was to blame, no doubt. He was probably just hung over.

Someone was whispering.

_Forever._

The tantalizing smell of coffee was suddenly upon him, warm and comforting and familiar. He turned his head wearily, as a heavy movement shifted the covers beside him, and then a familiar voice crooned, near his ear, _'_You're_ sleeping in? What's the world coming to_?'

With more effort than he'd ever needed in his life, Ludwig somehow managed to open his eyes and looked to his side, where Gilbert sat, watching over him with an unusually serene expression.

Oh, Gilbert. What a beautiful sight he was.

Even though he seemed strangely pale and vague, like they were separated by a mist.

Gilbert was smiling, eyes calm. He loved it when Gilbert was calm. When he wasn't drunk.

Smiling weakly, despite the hammering pain behind his forehead, Ludwig raised his arm, and reached out.

"What have you done to me?" he murmured, huskily. "I never drink this much."

_'Well_,' Gilbert murmured, resting a hand upon Ludwig's face and stroking his cheek gently, _'Good parties require sacrifice, don't they_?'

"I don't party," he retorted, weakly, and Gilbert just snorted.

_'Yeah. Yeah, I know_.'

"Lie down with me."

_'Sorry, Ludwig. I can't. I gotta go_."

Go? Gilbert always had to go.

He leaned into the warmth of Gilbert's hand (oh, _God_, it felt so good), too tired to be mad and closing his eyes in exhaustion, but the cold the air around him was becoming unbearable.

_You shouldn't drink so much, Gilbert._

_'Ludwig. I _love _you. Always did_.'

The words were garbled and so soft that he could barely hear, and he clung desperately to the hand next to him, for any kind of warmth.

Never had he known such cold.

"Did you turn the heat off, Gilbert?" he asked, furrowing his brow as the pain burned white, "It's so cold."

Gilbert did not respond, and he could feel himself drifting further into agony as the gentle hand moved from his face and ran through his hair, soothingly. The ache in his body was ever intensifying, and he felt a wave of light-headedness come over him.

Beyond the dizziness, a sense of unease.

Something was out of order, and Gilbert suddenly spoke gently to him again, close to his ear, but it sounded strange this time, and he could not understand.

This headache was more than anything he had ever experienced, and even the soft voice beside of him was causing him pain.

Not hung over. Too strong. Maybe Gilbert had slipped him some pills. Maybe Gilbert had gotten him drunk, and then lured him off into some corner to sweet-talk him into opening his mouth, whereupon he had slipped one of those little pieces of paper under his tongue.

He'd tried it before. Maybe it had worked this time.

"Gilbert, can you get me some medicine?" he pleaded, in a high-pitched whine, and there was a short silence before that soft voice answered, and even through his haze he could hear the strange, accented notes.

"Not to move, eh? Ah, you have...fever?"

That voice did not belong to Gilbert.

It startled him, and in a panic he opened his eyes and tried to bolt upright. But the movement was too fast for his broken body, and his vision turned completely black as his head swam with fire, and he stopped short. There would be no desperado run right now, and he fell backwards under the threat of passing out, groaning his pain, and rough hands cupped his face.

"I study more the German, yeah? Understand?"

He stayed silent, too afraid and too pained to answer.

The hands were suddenly gone, and a cool towel dabbed at his forehead.

That voice...

He tried again to open his eyes, although he was afraid of what he might see, and this time his vision cleared enough for him to make out his surroundings, blurry and faint though it was.

The room he was in was unfamiliar, painted a dark shade of dreary burgundy that lively Gilbert would have never allowed in his home. The window was covered with thick curtains; cream. No sunlight streamed through. He could see his breath in the air. Inside? The blankets were a bland cream too, and he looked over to his other side, and the large figure that was hovering above him slowly came into focus.

It was not Gilbert.

"Feeling...okay?"

It was not Alfred.

"I was, how you say...worry?"

It was not Roderich.

"You are very sick."

He tilted his head upward, caught under a pair of violet eyes that did not seem the least concerned (despite his declaration), and immediately shuddered.

He knew those eyes. Where from?

The man above was smiling eagerly, and then gentle hands were running down his face again; the gloves on his hands were soft, and warm. He tried to pull back from the unwelcome touch, and regretted it immediately.

A sudden coughing fit, coming from nowhere, overtook him.

He couldn't breathe.

The man above reached down, and started to thump his back, gently.

"Is okay! I get more...medicine? Yeah?"

His whole body shook with the force of rattling coughs. And the whole time, the gentle hands stayed upon him.

He thought he was dying.

Finally, after long, painful minutes, the fit subsided.

He was _so _sore.

Resting his head back on the pillow, on the verge of slipping away, he found his voice after a struggle, and looked upwards.

"Where am I?" he asked, and the man brushed his hair out of his eyes with almost loving attentiveness.

"Home."

"What's wrong with me? What happened?"

A short silence.

"You remember...nothing?"

What should he remember? So many voices were swimming in his ears.

And Gilbert...

_Ludwig! Don't!_

Where was Gilbert? Something wasn't right.

_LUDWIG! Oh God, oh God, don't go!_

A burst of blinding pain.

The screech in his mind startled him, and he gasped upright as a terrible flood of memories came rushing back with enough force to make his chest hurt, and he remembered _everything_. The _Stasi_ office in the distance, being so tired as Gilbert cried and pleaded, a horrible sense of hopelessness, the car ride to the border, the foolhardy jump, the trek through the snow, how he had been so mercilessly cold, his legs numb as he tried to find help, the great dead tree he had fallen before, the gnawing regret of a past life as he had drifted into darkness...

Gilbert whispering in his ear.

Someone had found him.

Ivan. It was Ivan.

He'd been caught.

He felt the nausea wash over him, above the sleepiness, and closed his eyes in despair.

_Oh_. He would rather have died out there in the snow than to be recaptured.

Ivan's fingers wound in his hair.

"Don't touch me," he moaned, voice barely above a whisper, unable to move, and he hated the feeling of helplessness.

He couldn't move.

The Russian lingering above him did not respond, running his hands through his hair with a strange fervor, as though he had never touched another human being before. Ludwig knew that it was probably only curiosity derived from him being a West German who had found himself somewhere he should not be (and who had _dared _to run), but it was disturbing nonetheless.

Somehow, Ivan's gentle fingers were more alarming than blows.

He began to shiver, as the bitter cold settled in even through the blanket. His forehead was covered with a cold sweat. His lungs felt like they were full of water. They crackled whenever he took a breath.

He had contracted some kind of illness out there in the snow, he realized, as the delirium of fever controlled his disjointed mind.

The fingers in his hair made him want to cry from sheer frustration. He couldn't stop them.

"Please leave me _alone_," he whimpered, and the general finally fell back, into a chair that resided at the side of the bed. Leaning back, Ivan smiled over at him, and nodded, pulling a book from the end table onto his lap.

"Sure. You to sleep, now. I to study more, _da_?"

"Fine," he conceded, too exhausted to argue, and closed his eyes.

Falling asleep had never been so easy, as the Russian's smooth voice rose softly above the silence as he studied aloud, and Ludwig could not help but be grateful that at least Gilbert did not have to endure whatever Ivan had planned for him.

When he was better, if he ever got better, perhaps he could try to escape again.

_Wait for me._

If not, he would find means to end it all himself, before the Russian could.

_I'll find you_.

With Gilbert's face in his mind, he went out.

Whispering.

* * *

><p>Time passed.<p>

Days. Weeks.

He passed every waking second in a great blur, and the only instances he remembered were when his fever mercifully broke and he came into the realm of consciousness. He was always cold.

Always cold. But never alone.

He could not recall ever seeing any sunlight coming in through the windows, but no matter what time of day he awoke to, he was never alone.

If he was strong enough, and lucid enough, sometimes he would lift his head, and see that Toris was there, leaning in the corner and staring off into space with a blank expression. Sometimes there was a tall woman who would lean over him and tend to his fever with motherly gentleness. Other times there was a young man, curious and prying.

No matter who was there, _always _Ivan sat off to the side of the bed, staring at him, book in hand. Even in the dead of night, he would open his eyes and find that he was being watched.

Did he not sleep?

Whenever he was awake, Ivan would set the book down upon the end table and come over, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to run his fingers through Ludwig's hair in what he might have thought was a soothing manner.

He could hear Ivan talking to him, but he did not have the strength neither to understand nor speak back, and only turned away from the lavender gaze, and fell back into delirium.

He lost track of the day, of the month, of where he was and why, his unfocused mind unable to ponder even the simplest of quandaries. He had never been this sick in his life, and such disorientation was new to him.

Sometimes he wondered if he would even pull through this. Sometimes, illness overtook even the strongest. But even as his muddled thoughts and dreams took him into the depths of lunacy, those gloved hands continued to touch obsessively at his hair and face, no matter the time of day.

It was intrusive, and unnerving.

One day, he woke up, and felt his lungs free of liquid.

He could breathe again. Soon after, the coughing fits stopped.

More days passed before he began to feel the first moments of real clarity.

One day he woke up, and felt lucid.

He felt okay. Shitty, really, but compared to everything past, it was okay.

He opened his eyes, and really _saw_ his surroundings. He did not know what time of day it was, but the dim light hinted that it was either daybreak or dusk. Both were equally cold.

As he expected, Ivan was hanging over him, violet eyes lidded thoughtfully as he sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through a book. They sat in silence for a moment, and Ludwig could only really wait for Ivan to notice that he was awake.

It didn't take long.

Glancing over, just to check, Ivan happened to catch his gaze, and then broke into a smile.

"Awake?"

Ludwig closed his eyes as the hands were on him again, running through his hair with that same strange gentleness. And even though the meaning of the act itself bothered him (just because he didn't _know_ the meaning), he could not help but take momentary comfort in the warmth of Ivan's hands.

As cold as it was.

"Feel better, yeah?" came the soft voice from above, and he nodded, weakly.

Already, he felt like going back to sleep. Such small movements took such effort.

Ivan moved suddenly, reaching down, and with ease he lifted Ludwig's head up off the pillow.

"Drink," he ordered, and there was suddenly a cool glass pressed against his lips. He obeyed, assuming it was water, but as soon as the liquid hit the back of his throat, the burn told him otherwise. It was bitter, but Ivan put his hand over his mouth so that he would not spit it out. "Drink."

He did. It was warm vodka, he knew, and the terrible taste of it made him want to retch. It was with effort that he finally put it all back, and Ivan lowered him back down, gingerly.

"Vodka helps when you are sick. Makes you stronger, yeah?"

He laughed, a strange, high-pitched sound that was more unnerving than his speech, and leaned in.

"My German is better, huh? I studied."

It was better, _much _better.

"How long was I out?" he moaned, and his voice was cracked and hoarse from disuse, throat scratchy and sore.

Ivan's hand ran up and down his cheek, absently.

Always touching. Well. Some people were just like that.

Ivan smiled down at him, and whispered, thoughtfully, "Oh, it must be...three weeks." He allowed Ludwig only a split second to digest this information, and then he had pulled back in, chirping, again, "My German is better, right? I studied while you sleep."

It was a simple question; a harmless search for approval. So how was he still so damn frightening, even when smiling? He stared down at Ludwig with alarming intensity, and Ludwig could only nod, once, heart racing with more than just fever. Ivan paused for a moment, as though appraising his honesty, and his brows raised in apparent satisfaction.

What would have happened, Ludwig wondered, if he had replied in the negative? If he had denied the compliment the Russian sought?

He could only imagine.

"It's...very good."

For once, his politeness worked in his favor.

Ivan's whirling eyes calmed, a little, and Ivan pulled himself to his feet. "Sleep," he whispered, as he backed to the door. "I have to get back to work. Now that you are, ah, awake, I think you can be alone, no?"

He nodded, even though, truthfully, he did not want to be alone. Not here.

Not when he was barely hovering over the edge of consciousness, tottering on the fine line of delirium, and everything here was so different, and the air was cold and stale and the room was too dark, and he didn't know where he _was_...

With a click of the door the Russian was gone, and he was alone. Without the strength even to stand, or to sit up, he could only stare up at the ceiling, and wish that he would fall asleep and dream again.

Gilbert's voice had been so comforting, even if it had been only a hallucination.

He'd rather dream.

_I'll take care of you. I always will._

He did not want to be alone. He tried to sleep.

He wondered if Gilbert was lying somewhere now, thinking of him.

He was thinking of Gilbert.

* * *

><p>The clock was always ticking.<p>

Constantly.

Tick tock.

Time never seemed to stop, no matter how much he wanted it to. The minutes kept on ticking by. He glanced up at the clock on occasion, and wished he could make it fall off the wall just by thinking about it.

No matter how hard he tried, it stayed put.

For some strange reason, even though there was a clock on the wall, there was no keeping track of time in this constantly veiled world.

Or maybe it was his head that was veiled. He _saw_ the clock, but his mind couldn't really comprehend it.

Maybe it had been hours since Ivan had left. Maybe it had been minutes.

And then there was coffee. He could swear he smelled coffee. Or was it just his mind playing tricks on him again? He could not tell, still pulling himself from sickness.

He had drifted off into sleep, it seemed.

There was a shuffle through the room, a clatter of porcelain on the end table, and, gathering himself for the day ahead, Ludwig opened his eyes.

"Rise and shine," came a drawled, soft voice, and he started in surprise when he realized that a pair of eyes were boring into his own, a mere inch away. Pulling back so fast that his ribs ached with the effort, heart racing, he nearly toppled off the edge of the bed.

"Calm down," the voice said, and when his overloaded mind finally woke up, he saw that it was not Ivan that was hanging over him.

It was just Toris.

He did not look pleased.

They watched each other in a moment of intensity, and then Toris raised a brow.

"Bacterial pneumonia," he suddenly said, breaking the silence, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills, tossing them onto the bed with swift indifference. "You nearly died, you know. We couldn't get any antibiotics until we reached Moscow, and by then... You're lucky."

Lucky?

A strong word.

Resting back onto the pillows, eyes narrowed in annoyance and pain as his head began to pound, Ludwig sent him an equally distasteful look, grabbing up the bottle and clutching it in his hands.

This medicine was the only thing that had kept him alive, and he was damn well going to finish the bottle.

Tilting his head to the side, Toris watched him, thoughtfully, and then nodded his head to the counter. "I brought you some coffee. I hope you like sugar."

He didn't, but his brow came up nonetheless.

"Thanks," he grumbled, and Toris leaned against the wall, and it was then that Ludwig noticed for the first time that Toris' left arm was up in a sling.

He tried to think back on events past; he hadn't done that, had he? He had only knocked Toris on the side of the head, and he had not fallen with nearly enough force to break his arm.

Toris saw his wandering gaze, and gave a half-smile, rolling his shoulder indifferently.

"I let you get away," was his simple explanation, and Ludwig's first feeling was that of alarm, because the unspoken conclusion was that Ivan had been the one who had caused the injury, then he felt something like fear, because Toris said it so casually that it did not appear to be anything out of the ordinary, and, lastly, he felt a bit of shame, because it had been _his_ escape that had brought down such punishment upon Toris.

But he would not apologize. None of this was _his_ fault. He hadn't asked to be dragged out into the heart of the Eastern Bloc. All they had had to do was arrest him and ship him off.

That had been the deal. Not all of this.

Taking the coffee mug in his hand, he stared down at the steaming black liquid and asked, tentatively, "Where are we?"

"Home." He could feel Toris' eyes upon him, but he did not care to meet his gaze. "Ivan cut his tour short after that little, ah...incident. From Brno he had the train redirected straight back home."

"And _where_," Ludwig murmured, wincing when the coffee hit his tongue, "is home?"

Far too sweet.

"Mirny."

He did not know the name, and wondered aloud, "And where exactly is Mirny?"

"A new town," Toris supplied, patiently, "founded around a diamond mine discovered in Eastern Siberia."

Siberia.

So, he realized with a shiver, he really _had_ been sent to Siberia. But his prison was far more elegant than the concrete cell he had originally imagined. But a prison all the same.

"This is Ivan's private residence, when he's not on call. This is where you'll spend most of your time. This will be your room, I suppose. I can't recommend leaving it unless absolutely necessary. And the town is _very _small; one post office. One doctor. One _KGB_ office. One prison. And everyone knows the general, so I can't recommend going out _there_, either. Also, I wouldn't recommend..."

He was barely listening.

Because even the strongest prisons could sometimes have their weaknesses, and as long as he kept his wits about him and took a good care of his surroundings, maybe...

Maybe.

Toris quickly dashed any hope of future escapes with his next words, which broke through his haze like a knife.

"...but, to give you a sense of distance, allow me to put it this way: we are over six thousand miles from Moscow. Ten days on the train. And if you try to run now, you'll find nothing but forests and snow for two thousand miles. Sub-zero temperatures on good days. Nothing over zero until February. If you're lucky."

Nausea.

Seeing his sudden paleness, Toris' look turned grim, and he shook his head, more to himself.

"Germans were never meant to live in this winter. You shouldn't be here."

Maybe he was right.

Escape certainly looked beyond bleak, and Ludwig set his mug down as his hands began to tremble. The thought alone of being in this godforsaken land, where something as simple as stepping outside could become a death sentence, was overwhelming.

It had sounded noble and honorable, certainly, when he had been cornered, with Gilbert's pleas behind him, but now that he was actually here...

He did not know how long he would last.

It was a mutual thought, perhaps, because Toris had settled down on the edge of the bed, and when Ludwig managed to meet his eyes, he could see that his stern face had softened. Just a little.

"Listen," he began, quietly, "Just... Just do what you're told and don't talk back and you'll do fine."

He felt sick. He was going to vomit.

"What do you mean? I'll be fine. What do you mean?"

No answer.

His head was hurting more than ever, and when Toris stood and walked to the door, he said after him, "But I still don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here. Tell me, please. Why am I here?"

There was a moment of silence, and when Toris looked over his shoulder, moving his broken arm gingerly, the strange light in his eyes made Ludwig shudder.

"I ask myself that every day," he whispered, as he eyed Ludwig from the doorframe.

Ludwig could only stare back, and knew he must have looked terrified.

Toris' impassive face fell.

"_Oh_. ...I shoulda shot you."

Then he was gone.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"I think I will make you a colonel."

It was always quiet here. Never any commotion.

The days passed by in a slow, uneventful tranquility.

Every day, as the last of the medication was used up, he felt a little better. He could sit up now, without that pain in his chest, and it was easier to focus on things and much easier to think.

He didn't remember much from those days of illness, but sometimes when he lied back and closed his eyes, he could hear that soft, smooth voice in his head.

The Russian didn't stay in his room all day now that he had passed the stage of danger.

It was both a relief, and a disappointment. He hated being alone, stuck in this bed.

Too much time to think.

He thought about Gilbert, and those he had left behind. He thought about how guilty Erzsébet must have been, having been unable to stop Gilbert. He thought about how hurt Roderich must have been, having sent him off to that tunnel. He thought about how distraught Alfred must have been, having stood there at the gate and being unable to follow.

And Gilbert. How he must have been lying there now, like this, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how things could have gone differently.

How many 'what if's.

He wished, even through the great distance, that he and Gilbert could somehow still _feel_ each other, maybe if they were both lost in space. If he and Gilbert were thinking about each other, then why couldn't they still be together? If he could reach out, and if Gilbert was reaching out too, then why shouldn't he be able to sense Gilbert's hand around his own?

Gilbert had been the sun in Ludwig's shadowy life.

Bright. Constant. Warm. Intense.

No sunlight, now. He couldn't sense Gilbert way out here.

Maybe that was the lingering effects of fever.

Because even as he lied there, in silence, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't feel Gilbert.

There was nothing. Only cold.

He hoped that Gilbert was alright. That he hadn't taken a turn for the worse.

As for himself...

The day had started off on the wrong foot.

As soon as the sun had risen over the horizon one cold morning, dim and pale behind the white clouds, someone had been at Ludwig's side, shaking him awake before he was ready.

And for what? What could there possibly be for him to do here? So far, all he had done was sleep.

He smelled like sickness.

'Wake up. Come on.'

He had swatted the hand irritably, weakly, and there had been a soft palm on his forehead, as a crooning voice asked, 'Feeling better?'

Before he could turn to see who it was, another hand settled between his shoulder blades, and the soft voice said, 'Take a big breath for me.'

He did, as the hand stayed firmly on his back. Not Toris. Too gentle to be Toris.

'Cough.'

He did. A moment of silence, and then the hand was gone.

'Good! That looks really good! I was worried about you.'

He had looked over his shoulder then, and when he saw a pair of blue-green eyes, he had sighed in relief.

It had been the woman, he did not know her name, but she was no threat to him. She had been there frequently in his delirium, and the motherly air about her was more than welcome.

Not Ivan.

Good.

She had helped him sit up, sitting on the edge of the bed as she checked his temperature and smoothed his hair, and even though he was thousands of miles from Berlin, her hands felt like home, and when she had pushed a cup of water in his hands and ran her hand soothingly down his back, he wanted nothing more than to fall against her chest like a child.

He had never known a mother.

Maybe he was just homesick.

Lonely.

Her hand ran over his stubbled cheek, and she fussed over his appearance in a friendly voice as he tried to take sips from the glass.

Already, he was tired. He couldn't stand this feeling of weakness.

He had looked over at her from time to time, and took in her appearance.

Fairly tall from what he could see, with pale skin and pretty eyes, a little stocky. Older than Ivan and Toris. She looked like a natural-born caretaker, with her gentle air and sweet smile, and even though he was a German in Russian lands, she didn't seem to really care.

She had the same color hair as Ivan, pale golden with a silvery sheen. Maybe they were related, which seemed a little strange, as scary as Ivan was.

She watched him as he tried to drink, her hands always wandering here and there.

'You look much better. I'm glad.'

He took comfort in her hands.

He meant to open his mouth and ask her what her name was, but he didn't have the chance; before he could even finish his glass, the door had creaked open, and Ivan had stood in the doorframe, and, after some words in Russian, the woman took the glass from his hands, set it upon the end-table, and took her leave.

He had longed to cry out after her, and say, 'Don't leave me alone with him!' but his throat clutched as Ivan's eyes fell on him.

Things turned tense, and when Ivan had come to the edge of the bed, he shrank away.

But the smile never fell from the Russian's face, and he had extended a large hand, asking, quite happily, 'You want to go walking?'

Well.

Yeah.

Yeah, he did.

Actually, he wanted to do nothing more, having been bed-ridden for nearly a month, but that being said, he had _not_ wanted to go walking with Ivan, unless it was to the train station so he could go home.

That seemed unlikely.

Ivan had stared at him, but he had found no answer.

He had merely narrowed his eyes in lieu of speaking, but it seemed like Ivan had only asked out of courtesy, because he had reached down and snatched Ludwig's hand within his own, anyway, and had pulled him to his feet.

It had _hurt_, as his chest lit up with agony.

'Feel alright?' Ivan had asked, seeing his face, and Ludwig nodded, even though he had not.

He had been light-headed and woozy and in pain, wobbling dangerously, but his pride would not allow him to lean against Ivan, and he had boldly taken a step forward alone.

A mistake, as he had promptly stumbled, his knees giving out completely beneath him. For a horrible weightless moment, he thought he would hit his head on the end table, but Ivan caught him with the reflexes of a cat, grabbing him up firmly by the waist and standing him straight.

His legs just wouldn't work. They felt like someone had snatched the bones right out of them.

Oh, _God_, how he had _hated_ the feel of it, and he had ducked his head when tears of frustration stung his eyes, and it hurt him more than anything to be so dependent on someone else for something as simple as walking.

Shameful.

'I've got you,' Ivan had said cheerily, seemingly oblivious to his distress, and had lead him slowly to the door. 'It's too cold for you outside. We will just walk down the halls, yeah?'

It had sounded nice, at first, until he realized that _Ivan _was walking down the halls, and he was mostly being dragged.

His feet felt numb, his legs quivered with the effort, and despite the cold air, sweat from exertion had dripped down his brow. His breath puffed out in the freezing air.

Did they always live like this? In this cold? He had looked over at Ivan, dressed fully in a long fur coat and hands gloved, boots visible from under his pants, and could only assume the answer was 'yes'.

How? He couldn't bear it. It was a strange feeling, to be sweating so and yet to be shivering with cold.

He tripped up a lot, and for a moment, he had to stop and duck his head down to keep himself from vomiting.

Ivan kept smiling down at him, and forced him to keep a steady pace, giving him a breather every so often.

'You'll get better soon. You were in bed a long time. Give it a little time. You'll get better.'

The words were hardly comforting, as horrible as he felt.

An hour or so of stumbling down endless halls, twisting around corners and passing so many doors, and he had taken in his surroundings with a bleary mind. Everything was so _bland_, and he felt as though he were walking through a fog the entire time. Pale colors, white tile, odd paintings every so often, arches and closed curtains and high ceilings. No bright colors. No bright lights. Only the pale, dusty streams of sunlight struggling through the curtains, and it was so _quiet_. Their footsteps echoed in the halls with a strange eeriness. The house was huge, and built so elegantly, and yet it was bare and hardly furnished, and seemed so empty.

So strange. A world of phantoms.

He hated it.

Another hour of walking, until he could take no more, and he had collapsed against Ivan's chest, panting for air even though it was so cold it stung his lungs.

'That's enough for now,' Ivan had muttered, and with a strong arm, he pulled Ludwig up straight, and changed direction, and after a few more twists they came before a door.

Ivan had nudged it open with his foot, arms busy supporting Ludwig, and they stepped inside.

And then things had turned _weird_.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he had been taken aback. The room was alive (if such a word could be used), with both color and people and sound, and he wasn't sure if he was hallucinating again or not.

But no; he was past that point of fever, and he let his eyes adjust to the light as he struggled to catch his breath.

It appeared to be some kind of living room, or, more likely, a dressing room (from the changing screen), and there was a small round table off to the side, and around it sat Toris, dressed neatly and shuffling through some papers with his good hand, and another boy that he did not recognize. Across the room, speaking loudly as she shuffled through a larger dresser, was the motherly woman that had been at his side, and they were all laughing.

When they had laid eyes on Ivan, and him, they fell silent.

He felt embarrassed as they had looked at him, propped up in Ivan's arms without strength, and he had realized that a radio was playing, filling the room with cheerful music that he could not understand.

How mortifying.

Silence.

Toris' papers fell still upon the table.

Then the woman smiled, and so did Ivan, and all conversation resumed as though nothing had happened.

Ivan pulled him inside and rested him down on a sofa, and he had been so grateful to sit that he laid back and closed his eyes, having no care to keep an eye on his surroundings.

What did it matter?

A movement at his side had alerted him, and when he looked over, wearily, he saw that the woman had sat down next to him with a wide smile.

Ivan had walked off to the dresser, and opened this drawer and that, with a tilted head, as he started searching.

'What's your name?' the woman had asked, in her fluent, if not quirky, German, and before he could even open his mouth Ivan had called, back, 'Ludwig'.

'I'm Irina.'

He had liked Irina immediately, and would have preferred her company over Ivan's any day.

She was comforting. Not alarming.

Toris had looked back at him over his papers, almost expectantly, and he remembered feeling a stir of apprehension in his chest. Was something going to happen? He had been so nervous that he barely heard Irina babbling amicably at his side.

Then someone grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet, and thrust him in front of a mirror.

He saw himself, and someone held him from behind.

He _wished_ that it was Gilbert's reflection that he saw alongside his, but it was not.

_I won't ever leave you._

Gilbert was gone.

And that jolt of longing brought him back to the present, and he stared into the mirror, watching his reflection with heavy eyes.

He barely recognized himself.

He was pale, even more than usual, his forehead shimmering with sweat, and his chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. His hair was too long, and he needed to shave, even though the platinum stubble was barely visible against his skin. He looked sickly and weak, and _hated_ himself for it, and it was made all the worse by Ivan, who stood behind him with a leer. He stared into the mirror too, and they met each others eyes in the reflection, as Ivan's hands clasped together firmly in front of Ludwig's stomach as he held him straight. Resting his chin on Ludwig's shoulder, he looked bright and alert and healthy, the exact opposite of himself.

He looked...

There were no words that his tired mind could really find to describe Ivan, except for _frightening_.

Warm breath tickled his neck, and he shuddered.

Ivan observed him thoughtfully, and then nuzzled his cheek.

He tried to pull away. He could not.

"I think...I will make you a colonel," came the whisper in his ear, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

A colonel. Of _what_?

"Colonel?" came a snappish cry from behind, and he looked over his shoulder to see that Toris had leapt from the table, tossing his papers down, keeping a mind of his arm. His eyes were blazing with something that looked almost like anger.

Ludwig did not understand why.

...the hell was going on?

"But he just got here!"

"No one was talking to you," was the sharp reply, and Toris fell back into his seat without another word, although his eyes clearly spoke his displeasure.

Ludwig had no idea what was happening.

"That suits him," Irina said, smiling cheerfully, and Ivan released his waist, and returned to the dresser.

"I know I have one," he muttered to himself, and Ludwig staggered back to the sofa, collapsing into it. A few minutes of shuffling, as Irina smoothed his hair down and fussed over his appearance, and then Ivan gave a triumphant, "Ah!" He looked over, met Ludwig's eyes, and said, simply, "Come here."

He held a uniform in his hand, and Ludwig looked at it in silent confusion, and then he turned to Irina, who tilted her head encouragingly.

What? His head was throbbing. He did not move, thinking that perhaps they were all _crazy_, and then Ivan took his hand and pulled him once again to his feet, and shoved the uniform into his arms.

"Here, put it on. I want to see you."

He stood there, dumbly, and Ivan grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back.

A tug towards the screen, a shuffle of clothes, and even though it was horrifically mortifying to have Ivan strip him down and help him into the uniform, it felt _so _good to be rid of his dirty clothes, even for this ugly olive-colored shirt and pants. Grabbing a cloth from the dresser, Ivan wiped his face of sweat, and tussled his hair to dry it, and when he was satisfied he pulled Ludwig back over to the mirror and looked him over.

"Colonel was right for you."

Somewhere behind, Toris scoffed.

And even though he was still too pale and the circles under his eyes were visible from a mile away, he could not help but feel a ridiculous surge of vanity, because...

"You look so handsome," Irina gushed from his side.

He did.

Under normal circumstances, and if he were not still out in space from his brush with death, he would have ripped the Soviet uniform off and started screaming that he was no goddamn Red, and that he would rather _die_ than see himself in such a color, but his thoughts were still muddled and he could only stare at his reflection numbly.

He was _alone_.

Ivan was the only one now who had control over his fate, and he was so confused and depressed and homesick that he could not think straight, and even though they were his enemies, their kind words felt good in his ears.

Clean clothes felt great. No matter what color they were.

Even as Ivan stood behind and reached forward, sweeping back his loose bangs with errant hands, he couldn't really seem to look away from the mirror.

He'd never worn such a uniform. He'd never been able to. He'd never fit in anywhere.

It felt strange.

His head _hurt_.

Ivan was beaming from behind, and for a confused moment, he had almost smiled himself.

Almost.

He'd used to wonder, sometimes, what he would look like as a military man. A thought he'd never shared with anyone.

"I will think of a good last name for you," Ivan suddenly said, looking him up and down thoughtfully, "and then you can come with me when I leave. I'll leave you in Toris' care, for now. He will show you all you need to know. Understand?"

He did not.

But Ivan did not wait for a response, and waved a hand in the air casually.

"I have to go. We will see each other tonight."

Then he was gone, and Ludwig was left with Irina and Toris and more bewildered than ever.

He fell back onto the couch, exhausted. He wanted to go back to sleep. Thinking was far too much effort right now.

A voice drew him from his daze, and he felt a shadow fall over.

He opened his eyes. Toris stood above him.

He didn't look happy.

"Listen here," he hissed, and loomed over with hand on hip, and Ludwig looked up at him wearily, "I didn't ask to have to take care of you, and I'm not going to waste my time on it, understand? I'll show you the basics, once, and then you're on your own. I have better things to do than teach Ivan's pets new tricks."

Toris' usually cool voice was heavy with spite.

"_Toris_, don't be mean," Irina chastised, her eyes stern and face sharp.

Toris brushed her off.

Ludwig's brow came down, and he threw back, irritably, as his headache intensified, "So leave me alone! I didn't ask for any of this. You want somethin' better to do? Take me home. How's that sound?"

The atmosphere was tense, and Toris observed him through narrowed eyes, brow severe, and Ludwig could see his eyes falling over and over again to the bar on his uniform. He looked down at his collar, dumbly, and observed too.

His was gold, two blood-red stripes in the center, and above them sat three golden stars. He looked at Toris'; gold, too, but there was only one red stripe, and two gold stars.

Such a small difference, so why was he so angry? Who cared?

He would be the first to admit that he had no knowledge of military ranks and duties, but what did it matter? He was not a soldier. He was not a colonel. He had the uniform, but anyone could find a uniform; so what? Toris had no reason to be angry with him. It was not his fault. And besides, it was not like he would have any real power.

This was some kind of game, right? Some joke.

It struck him suddenly, the absurdity of the situation, and he began to laugh even as they stared him, shoulders shaking with his giggles.

Was he trying to _rationalize_? Ha! There was nothing rational here.

He probably sounded crazy giggling so, but he _felt _crazy, and what else could he do? Motherfuckers were getting him all twisted around.

They looked at him with furrowed brows, and he could only shake his head, and wheeze, through his cackles, "I have no _idea _what is happening! I think I'm still dreaming, maybe. Nothing makes sense!"

Maybe he was really still in bed, stuck in delirium.

Instead of a prison, maybe they shoulda locked him up in a madhouse.

He was losing it. Crazy as Gilbert.

He couldn't seem to stop giggling.

The two beside of him looked at each other, Irina twisting her hands nervously in her lap, and when Toris opened his mouth again, his words stopped Ludwig's laughter dead in his throat.

"No dream. We call it 'life'. And if you ever return to Berlin, it will be as an officer of the Soviet military. You'll stand next to the general, and no one will ever know that you need help. You'll look like them. You'll act like them. You'll sound like them. No one will even think to question your presence there. But it's all an act. So you better get good at it, and fast."

His breath stopped.

The words didn't really sink in. His head was spinning.

Soviet military.

Impossible.

"I'm not in the military," he said, stubbornly, and Toris only shook his head, his anger fading into exasperation.

"You just don't get it, do you, you big dummy? He wants you with him at all times. He doesn't trust you alone, and the only way you can travel with a general is if you're military too. So." Toris held out his arms at his sides, and smiled in a way that more of a sneer. "Welcome to the army."

His chest ached.

Couldn't think.

"You won't actually be doing any decision making, naturally. You'll just accompany and stand at his side and pretend you know what you're doing. Think of it as more of being a well-dressed ornament. You'll meet plenty of interesting people, if you're into that. If you're lucky, he might even give you a gun. Better learn to salute."

"You're lying," he whispered, and oh _God_, he hoped he was. "He can't do that. It's illegal! It's impersonation. He could be—"

"Arrested? How? No one will ever know. Your uniform is real, isn't it? _You_ look like a soldier anyhow. And you won't say a word against him."

Like hell he wouldn't.

"Try me," he dared, voice barely a whisper, and now it was Toris who laughed.

"Just wait until you're alone with him, and see later if you're so brave! Think you can do better than me, huh?"

He felt the first trickle of dread slide into his stomach, and came to a sickening realization.

"You mean, you're not...?"

A coarse bark of laugher.

"No!" Toris answered, shaking his head as he smiled away, "I've never had a day of military training in my life. What? You look so surprised. You thought I was a real lieutenant?"

He laughed again, and Ludwig fell back onto the couch, feeling like he'd dived into the ocean.

He couldn't breathe.

He struggled to understand the magnitude of the situation he had unknowing walked into. Everything around him was deceitful. He could not see the road before him, nor where it would lead to.

A hand grabbed his shirt, and he was pulled to his feet.

"First thing's first, you better learn the national anthem! For appearance's sake. Ha! You're gonna be hearin' this for the rest of your life! Hope you like it!"

He was dazed.

"_Slavsya, Otechyestvo nashe svobodnoye_!"

He was angry.

"_Slavy_ _narodov nadyozhnyy oplot_!"

He was frustrated.

"_Znamya sovetskoye, znamya narodnoye_!"

He was _scared_.

"_Pust' ot pobedy k pobede vedyot_!"

He just wanted to go home.

Gilbert.

"Come on! Follow along."

He wanted to see Gilbert.

"Ah... We've got a _lot_ of work to do."

He wanted to _cry_.

* * *

><p>"How's your hand?"<p>

Emptiness.

Barely hearing the voice, Gilbert, head resting on the back of the couch, grumbled, "Better."

All the time.

"Let me see."

Automatically, he extended his arm, staring blankly at the ceiling, and did not even react when fingers began to probe at his hand, the sharp pains shooting up his arm barely even registering. He felt nothing.

Only emptiness.

"Well," came the hesitant voice, "I guess it's looking a little better. Can you move it?"

He tried. His fingers twitched, and then fell still.

"Nope."

"Alright."

And with that, Erzsébet lowered his arm gently down, and laid back, watching him silently. He could feel her eyes upon him, but made no effort to meet them, continuing his staring contest with the ceiling. He didn't much feel like speaking to her anyway.

His chest hurt.

Or maybe that was his heart.

This had been the longest month he had ever known, and he hadn't even left the house except for when Erzsébet and Alfred had dragged him (literally) down to the hospital. His broken hand had been so badly damaged that there had been talk of amputation, and he had only shrugged a shoulder, not really caring either way what happened to him, but in the end, metal pins had straightened the bone and an operation had removed the unusable broken fragments from his tendon. It would be as good as new, they said, in a few months.

So what? It didn't matter.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Time didn't matter anymore.

Ludwig was gone.

Living with Alfred was proving unbearable, every second of it, and all around him were reminders of his brother.

He could not bear them.

The mantle over the fireplace held photos of them together in days long since past. He had been in the process of burning them when Alfred came home and, furious, nearly broke his hand all over again to get them away from him. He had stashed them, no doubt, in his own room.

The kitchen was full of flour and baking pans. Gilbert threw them out. He did not bake.

The bathroom smelled of sandalwood. He bleached it all out.

And the bedroom...

Oh, God, the bedroom. He couldn't even go in it. He had tried, and the second he had turned the knob, he had burst into tears and back away.

He just couldn't. He had been sleeping on the couch.

He felt like he was walking through a great vast field of fog, and he couldn't see the other end. He didn't leave the house. He didn't want to see people. Sometimes, he rested his forehead against the cold window at night, and looked up at the sky.

The stars seemed dull.

Distant.

The only star he had ever given a thought to in his entire life had been Ludwig.

That star had burned out.

Alfred looked at him in pity sometimes, but Gilbert suspected that he held darker sentiments within him. Even hatred, maybe, because sometimes he came home and would start to say, 'Ludwig, I'm back,' and then he would trail off, a strange look on his face, and then his shoulders slumped and he would walk past Gilbert without even a 'hello'.

He hated himself, too.

Meals were awkward. Forks scraping plates, and sometimes Alfred would look up at him, brow low and eyes dark, and when he saw that Gilbert wasn't really eating, he would quickly snap, in a hostile voice, 'If you don't eat, I'm gonna shove it down your throat. Ludwig didn't go over there for nothin'.'

One night, he'd been sitting there on the couch, and Alfred had stood there above him, watching him with a strange expression. When Gilbert had finally bothered to look up and meet his eyes, Alfred had shaken his head and whispered, mostly to himself, 'I can't see any of _him_ in you.'

Him. Ludwig.

Of course Alfred couldn't see it. Because there wasn't any. Ludwig had been better. So much better.

Alfred knew it.

Once, he'd heard Alfred speaking on the phone to either Roderich or Erzsébet, and dissolve into tears, moaning to the other line, 'But I don't _care_ about _him_! I don't! I don't _want_ him here! I want Ludwig back. I can't... I can't...'

He'd walked away, and left Alfred in solitude.

Alfred _hated_ him. It was alright. He deserved it.

Erzsébet came to visit frequently, always with words of encouragement, but they did little for him. Useless rationality and half-hearted, 'it's not your fault's. It _was_ his fault.

She didn't have to lie to him. Roderich certainly didn't.

He had not set foot in the house since, but he called, to speak to Alfred, and if it was Gilbert who answered he would take a deep, shuddering breath, and slam the phone down.

Roderich hated him even more than Alfred did. Roderich had always hated him. Gilbert had figured that it was a combination of their clashing personalities, and his close friendship with Erzsébet.

Maybe that was his fault.

Way back, when Ludwig had been little, Gilbert had been sitting next to her on the couch, high as a fuckin' kite, and she had turned to look at him, her smile comforting and pleasant.

He'd asked her, then, what she saw in Roderich.

She'd just smiled, and replied, 'I love him.'

It wasn't that he wanted her for himself. It was just that he didn't really want Roderich to ever have anyone. He didn't want Roderich to be happy.

Simple spite.

So, he'd carried on the conversation, and had put an arm around her shoulder.

'Say, don't you think I'm a lot more handsome?'

She'd laughed, and placed her hand above his own. 'You're as dashing as they come, Gilbert!'

'So how come you're not with me?'

She had turned to look at him, her eyes red and lidded like his were, and she burst into laughter.

'Oh, Gilbert!' she had cried, between giggles, 'Oh! I could sit here and drop acid with you all day long, but I can't _even_! I can't even _imagine_ fucking you!'

She'd giggled away, and it had been injured pride (and maybe the acid) that had made him grab her chin and turn her head, crushing their lips together.

She had humored him, then.

Afterwards, he'd looked down at her, her chin still in his hand, and he'd conceded.

'You're right. That didn't do anything for me.'

She patted his arm.

'It's alright. I'd drive you crazy.'

Maybe that was true. She'd never made him truly happy, even then.

He'd really only ever thought about Ludwig. He _did_ love Ludwig.

It hurt, sometimes. It only got worse, the more Ludwig had grown.

He had argued with Roderich _so_ many times about Ludwig.

He couldn't stand it when Roderich wanted to talk to Ludwig. It made him want to scream.

Roderich had _always_ hated him.

So it was with great surprise that Erzsébet threw a coat over his shoulders that day, and said, "Roderich wants to see you. Come on."

He looked at her, dumbly, and she tugged him to his feet.

Since when?

"Why?"

"I don't know, Gilbert, he wouldn't say."

He did not want to go. He was _afraid_ to go. He dreaded the thought of going outside.

Of facing Roderich's gaze.

But he was even more frightened _not _to go, because Roderich would no doubt blow his top and come marching over, and that would be even worse. He could not stand the storm in Roderich's eyes, nor the accusation.

The hate.

He let Erzsébet lead him where she would, and he drifted out into space, barely aware when they stepped into a taxi.

Outside. He didn't deserve to be outside, amongst people.

Where was Ludwig now? Was he still alive? Or had he already expired in Siberia?

Ludwig would never see these streets again.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He was older. Useless. Careless and reckless and mean and, to put not too fine a point on it, a terrible human being.

Ludwig was young. Bright. Gentle and polite and calm and good-natured and kind. Ludwig could have been somebody. Ludwig had deserved the world.

Gilbert had given him hell.

He thought about it sometimes.

Swallowing all the pills. But he didn't. Because he deserved to suffer, as Ludwig was.

Gilbert came back down to earth only when Erzsébet shook his arm, gently, and whispered, "Go on. I'll wait here. It'll be alright."

He started, and realized that he was standing in the hallway of a building, and the door was in front of him. When had he gotten out of the car?

She shoved him forward, and he stumbled.

That door.

He froze up, reluctant to pass through it and face the wrath of a better man, but Erzsébet pulled it open and shoved him through.

The click from behind sounded more like a death knoll, and then he saw Roderich sitting at his desk.

His stomach twisted.

The air was thick.

They stared at each other, silently, Gilbert shuffling his feet awkwardly, and then Roderich stood.

"Gilbert."

The name from his tongue dripped with distaste.

"Roderich. You wanted...to see me?"

And Roderich, as usual, cut to the chase.

"Yes. Do you know how to get to Brno?"

"Where is that?"

"Czechoslovakia."

"I... No. I don't know."

Another short pause, as Roderich raked his eyes over him, observing and calculating, and then he asked, voice steady and guarded, "How are you feeling?"

Why? Roderich didn't care how he was, so there was something else going on. And how in Christ's name would he know where the fuck some distant town was anyway?

"I don't know," he responded, warily, and Roderich leaned forward, brow furrowed.

"I'm asking how you're _feeling_," he said, and there was no love in his voice. "I'm asking if you can walk. If you can move your hand. If you're ready to get going."

"I'm..."

He trailed off, as Roderich opened up the drawer on his desk and began to rummage through it. He was confused, and cautious, and the light in Roderich's eyes was not necessarily a good thing.

Something was going on. And knowing Roderich, it was not going to be pleasant for him.

"_Where _am I going?" he finally managed, voice cracking, and feeling the churning in his stomach.

There was a heavy silence, a movement as Roderich pulled something from the drawer, and then Roderich scoffed and reached out across the desk, thrusting into Gilbert's hands a folded map, and a gun.

His felt ice slip down the back of his neck.

"You're going after Ludwig. You're going to bring him _home_."

Ludwig?

Impossible.

Ludwig was gone.

"Back..._there_?"

He shuddered, and was disgusted at himself for his cowardice. He had spent the last month dreaming about getting back to Ludwig, but, oh _God_... The thought of going back _there _was enough to make him tremble like a leaf caught in a breeze.

Back in the Red zone. Back into the USSR.

He could have puked right there.

"Yes," Roderich spat, sitting back down and clasping his hands before him. "Back there. I've marked the map. I called some favors, and paid some money. That general that you mentioned is Ivan Braginsky. I've written it down. He was touring the Eastern Bloc, and was last seen in Brno. From there, he was supposed to go to Budapest, but he never showed. So, you'll have to go to Brno first, and find out what happened."

"Why?"

He didn't understand. Roderich was probably just trying to get him killed.

"Why go after _him_?"

And now Roderich's gaze churned as fiercely as his stomach, and he muttered, "The man I spoke to said that the general was accompanied by a lieutenant, and by a young blond man with blue eyes that no one recognized. Sound familiar?"

The world stopped, and all he could hear suddenly was the pounding of the blood in his ears.

He could have died.

Ludwig was with _him_?

_Alone_?

Numb and suddenly very cold, he met Roderich's serious eyes and could only nod, once. There was hope still, however thin and fragile.

Ludwig, brave and strong, might still be alive and in a position to be rescued.

Hope.

A strange feeling.

"Take Alfred with you, if you want."

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "I'll go alone."

Alfred hated him.

"Fine."

His heart raced in terror, because he did not _want_ to go alone, but he could not bring himself to ask Alfred to go with him, even though he knew the American would agree in a second, because Alfred hated him, and he couldn't bear traveling with someone better than himself.

If _Alfred_ saved Ludwig, instead of him.

Selfish, but he couldn't fathom the thought of not saving Ludwig as Ludwig had saved him.

His terror was mixed with a strange exhilaration and that old feeling of ego, because this request meant that Roderich had forgiven him enough to entrust him with this task, to entrust him with Ludwig's _life_, but then...

"I want him back here, no matter _what_, _Gilbert_, and I don't care if you die along the way."

His exhilaration faded into a cold dread.

"And when he's safe..."

_Together._

"...he's coming with me and Erzsébet to Vienna..."

He had tried his best.

"...and you won't _ever _see him again."

_Forever_.

Numb and dazed, he could only nod dumbly under Roderich's burning gaze; how could he argue? Roderich was always right, and Ludwig would be safer with them, because he had failed so terribly once already. How could he ever be trusted with such responsibilities afterwards?

Ludwig would be better off.

"I'll help you all I can, from here. You know the number. And God _help_ you, Gilbert, if you don't bring him back. If it's not with _him_, then don't bother coming back here. You hear me?"

He nodded.

He didn't _deserve _to see Ludwig again.

"Go."

He did, clenching the map so tightly in his hand as he went that it crumpled, and tucked the gun into his coat pocket.

He would not fail again.

Redemption.

He'd do anything for Ludwig.

_Wait for me._

Anything.


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N **: In this chapter, there will be movement from Mirny to Lensk, another Siberian town, and when I was doing research I found an awesome blog that had AWESOME photos of the road that connects them (in summer), and also the diamond mine in Mirny. I thought it would be nice for you guys to have a picture in your head of the road. It's very pretty in the summertime!

Link (minus the spaces, of course) : www. advrider (dotcom) forums/ showthread. php?t=569243&page=5

Yeah, I know, I'm making you put _way _too much effort into this. I'm sorry! XD

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

It was only appropriate.

Oh, _God_, he was so afraid of the dark.

His worst fear. Night. Not seeing.

He was afraid of groping blindly in the black of night. He was afraid of not knowing what lay ahead, or behind. He was afraid of things lying in wait that he could not see. He was afraid of ghosts, even, for Christ's sake.

He was afraid.

But it was only appropriate, Roderich had written on the map, that Gilbert be forced to use the same death tunnel that Ludwig had crawled through when he had set out on his rescue so long ago. Because history was doomed to repeat itself, after all, and Roderich had always had a taste for the cruelly ironic.

What Roderich did not understand was that Ludwig was brave...

He stood before the grate, hands clenched into fists at his sides, chest falling and rising with deep breaths as he struggled to stifle his fear and nausea, forehead dripping with sweat despite the cool air.

...and _he _was not.

This place. This horrible place.

All around him were terrible gusts of wind and haunting creaking of the dilapidated building, and he stared ahead at the locked metal grate, and beyond it there was _nothing_—only oblivion, and oh, Christ, it was _so _dark. It was made all the worse at the thought in his head of Ludwig standing here once before, and he could see it before him as though through a dreamy fog :

Ludwig, pale hair shining white in the moonlight, standing tall and straight, completely calm and determined, and when his eyes looked into the void, he saw only the other side.

Gilbert saw only death.

He was glad that he hadn't told Alfred, because Alfred was brave too, and he had no doubt that Alfred would have pushed onward without a doubt and without fear.

He could barely move. He felt _sick_.

So frightened that he was trembling down to his boots, he fell onto his knees before the grate, and pulled out a bobby pin, but his hands were shaking so terribly that it kept slipping from his fingers. He stabbed blindly at the lock, turning his fingers this way and that, but it did not click open. He tried again, and then again, and when he fumbled the pin and lost it all together, he pulled himself to his feet and withdrew the gun from his coat.

His hand shook. He wanted to cry.

He aimed, and fired one shot, and _somehow_, despite his terrible aim, the bullet hit the lock straight on, and the iron obstacle fell to the ground with a dull clatter.

Time to go. He could do it.

He _could_.

Sucking in one great breath, he knelt back down, pulled the mesh up, and as soon as he had crossed the other side, he broke into a mad dash, praying that he could just make it to the other end in one mighty sprint. But it didn't happen that way, and he had barely gone ten yards before he was forced to slow, as the ceiling suddenly turned into dirt, and the dirt kept getting narrower and narrower.

The tunnel was small.

For a moment, bent at his waist, hands reaching up and cupping soft earth, he froze.

God help him, the terrible thought that crept suddenly into his mind, oh God help him.

He could just turn around, and slink back into the city, and go somewhere far away, maybe France, retreating from this death tunnel as he retreated from so many things, and he would take with him all of his memories of Ludwig, and no one would ever know of his horrible descent into shame, or how he had thrown away his brother because of his own cowardice.

_It was worth it, just to see you again._

How could he?

_If only for a moment._

No.

Digging his fingers into the dirt, he closed his eyes, and pushed it away so hard that his head began to pound, because he would turn this gun on himself before he ever abandoned Ludwig to the winds.

No matter what road lay before him, he would never turn his back on his brother.

Never.

He lived for Ludwig. Without Ludwig, there was _nothing_.

No stars. Just an empty sky.

He sucked in a great breath, found his feet, and plunged into the darkness, leaving behind him the security of the West, because Ludwig _needed _him, and maybe the whole thing was folly, stupid and foolish, but if he could not get Ludwig back, then he would not return.

He'd shoot himself.

Crouching down and feeling dizzy as his heart hammered in his chest, he crept along carefully, sticking his foot out and feeling around before he took a step, and at his sides he felt the moist edges of the tunnel. It was cold, damp, and the air was stale and musty and rancid.

Absolutely pitch-black.

It was the most horrifying experience of his life, worse even than when he had been strapped to that iron chair in the _Stasi_ building, because at least there he could _see_.

Claustrophobia.

Everything was closing in.

Crushing.

His breathing became shallow and erratic, and he could feel his self-control wavering as the walls began to close in around him, and his head bumped against the dirt ceiling. It was too small, too compact, too narrow, too cramped. He could not get enough air.

He couldn't breathe.

Carelessly, he stopped feeling before he stepped, desperate to get free from this suffocating night before he passed out.

The dirt got stuck under his nails.

He tried to speed up, but there were so many holes, and he stumbled, over and over again, and every time that he pulled himself to his feet he could feel the urge to run bubbling up within him.

He was scared.

It was _so_ long.

There was no end in sight. An eternity of fear and night and foul air.

And if there was someone behind him, or in front of him, then how would he _know_, and Jesus, what if there were bodies in here? What if he tripped over one and landed on it, and—

Something suddenly crawled over his hand, an insect maybe, but the skittering touch was just too much, and he threw all caution to the wind and gave in to his panic.

He ran, as well as he could, gasping in the sour air and trying his best not to cry.

He had to get out of here.

The scariest moment of his life.

He tripped in another hole, and this time his ankle twisted, but he could not stop.

Panic in his veins led him now. Not the urge to save.

He forced himself to his feet, ignored the terrible pain, and hobbled on, digging his fingers in the dirt and hauling himself along.

Because behind him there was only fear and pain and anger and hopelessness and regret, and oh, how he _hated _himself with every breath for ever being so stupid, and Roderich would never forgive him if he gave up, and before him there was hope and salvation and redemption in the face of Ludwig—

_Oh God, help me, help me, God, helpmehelpmehelpme—_

Light.

Suddenly there was light.

He sped his furious pace, and there was suddenly a flimsy wooden door before him, made of poorly constructed boards and nails, and through the cracks streamed a faint light.

Hope.

He ran into it with all of his strength, his shoulder bringing it crashing down, and when he broke through into the fresh air, he collapsed.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Air. Light. Open space.

He was in another building, he did not know what kind, nor did he care; there was only cool air and moonlight, and he crawled out from the dirt, fingers digging into the concrete floor as he pulled himself back into the world.

Rolling over onto his back, he heaved for breath, staring up at the ceiling, and once his lungs had had their fill, he reached up, clenched his dirty fingers in his equally dirty hair, and started to cry.

He lied there for half an hour, maybe more, sobbing into his sleeves and crying out in misery to no one, rolling from side to side as he tried to come down from that awful atmosphere of total fear, and he was grateful for once that Ludwig was not with him, because it would have _shamed_ him for his brother to see him wallowing like this.

Shame. All he had was shame.

It _hurt_, more than anything else, to imagine his little brother crawling through that tunnel, kneeling in the dark and creeping through death itself, just for him.

It hurt.

Oh, Ludwig. It made his heart ache. That proud, noble, dignified Ludwig had _ever_ had to do this. Had been reduced to this.

As he lied there, gasping for air and coughing as he tried to stop the sobs, he wished, above all else, that he had left Ludwig in Roderich's care all those years ago.

None of this would have happened.

It would have been better, for everyone, if he had just overdosed on some pills and slipped away quietly in some dirty alley long before all of this.

Ludwig would be alright.

Safe.

But it hadn't happened that way, and he had to go.

Once he had found the strength to carry on, he staggered out of the abandoned building, limping as his ankle lit up with agony, and he found himself once again roaming the streets of the Eastern Bloc. Once again voiceless and repressed.

Somehow, he did not know how, he found himself in front of his flat. It was locked, and his key was long gone. He shattered a window and crawled through, because surely one night of this hell was enough for now.

He needed to shower himself free of the acrid soil, and put ice on his ankle.

Try to scrub free of the shame.

It did not fully register with him that he was _home_ until he looked out at the city from the window of his abandoned flat, and saw the wall looming in the distance.

That old wall. He shuddered.

God, he had gotten _away _from this.

For what? Just to come straight back? He had dreamt of the West for so long, and now he was back in the East, his taste of freedom only a memory. But then, it hadn't been true freedom, not really.

Not without Ludwig.

He threw himself into a chair, and stared at the wall, and he stayed there in his house for nearly two weeks, gathering his strength and his nerve for his journey into the abyss.

Ludwig was strong. He wouldn't give up.

Gilbert wouldn't, either.

Ludwig was waiting for him.

_Brother._

* * *

><p>Weeks.<p>

Weeks of merciless training, with orders and disappointed shakes of heads and half-hearted smacks, and he felt like a goddamn dog, jumping when Toris said to without even realizing he was doing it.

Every day. Every hour. Every _minute_.

Even though Toris said it was for his own good, Ludwig had serious reservations about the truthfulness of that statement, because how could it possibly be _good _for him to have Toris burst into his room in the dead of night, stomping his boots and shouting, 'Up! Up!' and scaring the almighty out of him?

How could it be good for him to have Toris blaring the Soviet national anthem on the record player as he tried to sleep?

How could it be good for him to have Toris drag him into the bathroom, toss him into the shower, and turn on the cold water?

Every day was the same. He wondered sometimes if Toris hated him.

Because at times, it felt like he was more of a glorified stress ball for Toris, more than a pupil. Because it looked like Toris seemed to enjoy it.

Maybe that was just him.

The first day hadn't been so bad. Toris had only worked on how straight he kept his back and with what precision he saluted. And even though he did not understand why he was doing this, he did it anyway, because he had thought it was easy.

He did it because he didn't have anything else to do.

He thought it was just a game.

But Toris was just _merciless_.

A single millimeter off with his hand and Toris would heave an aggravated sigh and gently slap the back of his head. A single quiver when he was standing straight and Toris would furrow his brow and grab his collar at the back of his neck, pulling him from behind until he was as rigid as a board. A single twitch of his eyes when he was supposed to be at attention, and Toris would smack his cheek.

And everything he said had to be followed up with 'Comrade'.

'Colonel?'

'Yes, comrade?'

'I like that uniform.'

'Thank you, comrade.'

'Where did you get it?'

'From you, comrade.'

'Where's your hat?'

'On my head, comrade.'

'And who owns that hat?'

'You do, comrade.'

'I own that hat, so does that mean I own your head too?'

'Yes, comrade.'

If he forgot to say it, Toris would reach up and pull his hat down below his eyes and hit the top of it with his fist. It didn't _hurt_, not with Toris' gentle hands, but it was annoying as all hell, and sometimes he just longed to whirl around and punch Toris in the nose and say, 'That's for you, _comrade_!'

It was with great effort that he restrained himself, because Irina usually accompanied Toris on these training sessions, and he would not resort to such uncouth actions in front of a lady. Especially when she was always so keen to tell him exactly how well he was doing, and how handsome he was, and how _mannered_!

Well.

Yes.

Her praise made it a little easier. And he could walk now, without that pain in his body, and that helped his irritability.

At night, when the training was complete (if Toris was in a good mood, anyway), when he would lie in bed, Ivan would knock once on the door and then slip inside, sitting himself down in the chair and smiling at Ludwig calmly.

'Toris said you did really well today.'

'Mm.'

'I'm glad. I expect a lot from you, you know. You're going to be something great. I can tell.'

With that, he would stand up, clap Ludwig on the shoulder, and leave.

Ludwig stared at the door long after he was gone.

Something great. Like what? He'd never been anything.

Nobody.

He didn't know what Ivan _wanted_ from him. He didn't understand. What was the point of any of this? Ivan said he expected a lot. Of what? He hated even thinking about it. It made him sick. He didn't get any of this. He couldn't figure it out.

He hated not knowing. Being in the dark.

Every day was the same.

Sometimes, Toris taught him something different.

He was starting to wear down a little.

Toris was trying his best to beat all of these actions into his subconscious, and even though he hated it, by God it was working, and when Toris would burst into his room in the night, he would leap from his bed in a bleary daze, stand up straight and salute, and Toris would only smile and walk right back out.

Sometimes, when he wasn't thinking about it, he would realize that he was humming the national anthem.

Worse, when Ivan would enter the room he would stop where he stood and stare straight ahead, as though at attention, without even thinking about it, and when Ivan smiled knowingly, he felt his cheeks burn red and realized that he had been successfully conditioned.

They were getting into his head.

No. _Ivan _was getting into his head, because everything Toris did came straight from Ivan, didn't it, and he could not help but wonder, with something that felt like pity, who had trained Toris.

Gentle Toris, who could barely raise his fist in anger, and he hoped that it had not been ruthless Ivan. But who else could have?

It was also this pity that kept him from taking out his anger on Toris, because he knew now that Toris had once been in his position, somehow or another.

What was going on around here? So many things hidden... This world of secrets and lies.

He hated this place.

Sometimes, Irina would see his depression and come up and take his hand, patting his cheek. When Toris was in a good mood, sometimes he smiled. And always, Ivan had nothing but compliments.

He hated them.

But he had been _so_ lonely for so long, ever since Gilbert had been gone. No one had ever really been able to fill the void left behind.

He couldn't help but enjoy the attention they gave him, even if he would go to his grave denying it.

He just wished that he knew what was going on. He wished that they would explain it all to him. Sometimes he wished that he had just been sent off to that prison that Ivan had spoken of, because at least there things would make sense.

This place made his head hurt. He _hated_ this place.

Everything was veiled.

Time passed, Toris kept on training, and he kept on learning. Even if he didn't really want to.

What else could he do? He didn't have a life outside these walls anymore. He did what he was told, in a blind daze.

Maybe that had all been for the best.

Time passed.

He finally got the salute right.

Days later, he was finally given some insight and information.

It wasn't what he wanted.

For when finally he realized why Toris had been training him so relentlessly these entire weeks through, it did not make him feel any better. Actually, it made him feel worse.

It was the coldest morning yet, and Ludwig had been shaken awake at dawn's first light, pulled to his feet, and when his eyes cleared, Toris had been standing before him, brow creased in worry.

He hadn't even had time to open his mouth to ask what was wrong.

One yank to the door, and Toris had dragged him down the halls rather forcefully, so fast that he stumbled, and led him into a room.

Clothes had been shoved into his hands, and Toris had said, 'Change! Quick!'

He had.

And here now he stood, in front of a full-length mirror, dressed in the ugly Soviet uniform that had been forced upon him, and Toris was circling him like a vulture, inspecting every detail.

"Well," he finally grumbled to himself, as he stood on his toes to straighten Ludwig's hat with sure fingers, functioning surprisingly efficiently with one hand, "at least you look good in it, I guess."

What did he say to that? Thanks?

Eh.

He only grunted and shrugged a shoulder, and suddenly Toris met his eyes, and there was only seriousness.

"We're leaving soon, so be ready."

His heart raced.

"Where are we going?"

He had not been outside in all the time he had been here. He didn't even know what it looked like out here.

Toris looked at him, and for a moment, he almost looked _sad_.

"Lensk. It's another town. Ivan holds a military ball there every year." Toris' eyes narrowed, and he observed Ludwig from head to toe, adding, voice thin, "He's had one already this year, so you must have made quite an impression. Well, no one ever died from too much fun, I suppose."

Yeah, right. Gilbert might have challenged that statement.

Still, he did not understand any of it, and his look said as much.

Toris took pity on him, and elaborated, "They hold a ball every year in Moscow, but Ivan hates Moscow, so he started hosting his own in Lensk a few yeas ago. They're a big hit with the Soviet generals and everyone else, too; Bulgarian, Chinese, Hungarian, East Germans, Romanian, Polish. Ivan doesn't hold them up to military code when they're there, you see. They do whatever they want. They bring their mistresses. They bring boys. They drink all they want. They gamble. It's held in the grand hotel, so they can sleep it off the next morning. You don't even want to know what goes on in some of those rooms." He laughed; strained, and humorless. "That's the only reason they put up with this damn cold weather! You wouldn't catch them dead in Siberia otherwise. And every year, Ivan likes to show off his newest conquests. Looks like you're up this time. I hope you know how to waltz."

He shuddered.

"Who says I'm going?" he retorted, petulantly, and Toris crossed his arms.

"Ivan."

And that, it seemed, was that. Whatever words he had were stifled when the door clicked open, and someone joined them. Looking over his shoulder in the mirror, he saw the small boy that he had glimpsed several times, and for a moment he was going to raise his hand gently, to say hello.

Toris drew his attention back by buckling a gun holster around his waist, and when he saw the glint of steel in the light, his breath left him.

A rush of hope.

Until Toris whispered, curtly, "I hope you don't think it's loaded."

His face fell.

Once it was hooked in, Toris raised his head, and studied him with an eagle eye. He made sure that everything was perfect, down to the gloss of his belt buckle and the smoothness of his pants, the neatness of his eyebrows, and Ludwig let him do as he would, feeling worn down and confused and half-hearted.

Why was any of this necessary? What did it matter? Who cared?

He felt defeated. Tired.

Behind him, the boy suddenly came up to Toris' side and gazed up at them with awe, and then he reached out, taking handfuls of Toris' shirt and tugging him.

"Toris! _Kogda ya poluchayo uniformu_?"

Ludwig looked down at him through the reflection in the mirror, and he was taken aback by the very adult look of resentment on the boy's face. He had the sudden urge to snip, 'What are _you _staring at, you little brat?' but it seemed that Toris was just as irritated by him, and swatted him away like an annoying fly.

He frowned and skulked off, stomping his feet, and Ludwig asked, under his breath, "What did he say?"

Toris snorted.

"He wants a uniform so badly. But Ivan won't give him one until he's old enough. It drives him crazy." Ludwig barely suppressed a roll of his eyes, because _God_, who would _want _this? But Toris only shook his head, and added, lowly, "He doesn't speak German, but be careful how you act around him. It'll get back to Ivan, one way or another. He wants to impress him, you see. He adores Ivan. That's his hero, you know. Dumb kid. What's he know?"

He did not respond, standing still as Toris straightened his collar and then picked lint from his shirt, and when Toris was satisfied, he finally looked at his reflection.

What he saw there made his chest burn with hate. Despair. If he did not know for a fact that it was _him _there, he would not have recognized himself.

Straight as an arrow and polished down to his cuticles, hair and hat perfectly perched and uniform absolutely pristine, he looked like the very definition of Soviet military. And he understood now what Toris had meant when he had said that no one would know he needed help.

God, he looked _just like them. _He looked like one of them.

He suppressed the urge to reach out and shatter the mirror with his fist.

Or _cry_.

Toris saw him twitching, and sighed.

"Don't look so nervous," he said, more awkwardly than soothingly, and Ludwig could only stare down at him with complete hopelessness, and for a moment, just a moment, Toris' stern eyes dropped their guard. Reaching up to brush down the shoulders of the uniform absently, he added, "Just salute a lot, and say _comrade _every time you end a sentence, and you'll do fine. It won't be as scary as you think."

He was not comforted, and his look said as much. He just wanted everything to be over with.

Toris opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and he finally just shook his head and turned away.

A moment of silence.

Toris shrugged his shoulders, keeping his back towards Ludwig.

"I don't know what else to say to you. I really don't. I'm not good at...this. Telling someone what to do, and pretending that I know everything." He bowed his head, and for a moment Ludwig could see something breaking through that perpetual despondency. "I'm used to other people making all the decisions."

Yeah.

...so was he.

This wasn't quite like anything he had ever prepared for. Why couldn't he just go home?

Finally, Toris turned back around, mask firmly in place.

"Ready? Let's go."

He did not respond, numb, and stared firmly at the floor as he walked behind Toris.

A door opened, and he was outside. The first time since he had been here.

The light hurt his eyes, for a moment, after being inside for so long, and he squinted.

White.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Minutes, and then he could see. For all it mattered.

Snow.

Snow all around, the short trees sagging down with the weight of it, the sky was grey, the horizon pale and misty, and even though he had not yet seen the house from the outside, he did not look over his shoulder as they walked down the steps.

He did not want to see his prison.

Sometimes, it was better not to know.

Instead, he kept his eyes on the car that was waiting in the drive, plumes of carbon monoxide floating through the freezing air, and even though he had only been out here for not even a minute, his ears were numb.

It was so cold. He never knew there were places on earth that could be so cold. His eyelashes were getting stuck to his skin. How could anyone _live_ here?

Toris led him along.

Then he was before the car, and Toris opened the door to the backseat.

He froze.

Ivan was there, smiling that ever present smile, well-groomed and wide awake.

He hesitated, shifty and anxious, but Toris shoved him and he had no choice but to step in. When he sat down, he scooted towards the window as close as he could, keeping his eyes everywhere but towards Ivan.

No need to encourage him.

A lurch, and then they were moving.

He was already shivering.

There was a shuffle at his side, and he dared himself to glance over.

Probably shouldn't've. Ivan had scooted closer.

His brow came down, and he primly ignored the Russian when he said, cheerily, "Good morning!"

He didn't respond.

A shift at his side, and with an iciness that had nothing to do with the temperature, he could feel Ivan leaning into his side, and he crooned again, "Good _morning_!"

He caught Toris' eyes in the rearview mirror, and at his worried gaze Ludwig could only duck his head and grumble, monotonously, "Morning."

There were hands on his head suddenly, and he flinched back when Ivan removed his hat with eager hands. He nearly protested, because it was too damn cold to be without it, but then Ivan shoved another hat down onto him forcefully. He could feel that it was fur, and the flaps hanging down the side told him it was an ushanka.

And when Ivan tied it together below his chin, he narrowed his eyes, feeling absolutely ridiculous. He could have died for the shame.

God, he could hear Alfred's voice in his ears.

_Better dead than Red!_

"It's warmer," Ivan supplied, at his testy look, and scooted in ever closer.

To take his mind off of the overwhelming presence, he turned his eyes to the window, and watched the road go by.

There was nothing. Only trees, and snow.

White-out.

It was already well below zero (and indeed, the thermometer in the front of the vehicle clearly read negative 32) and the road was coated with ice. They went along at a snail's pace, and every so often Toris would curse under his breath as the tires of the vehicle began to lock up and slide. Every time it happened, Ludwig threw out one hand to the windowsill and held on for dear life, his heart racing as Toris fought with the steering wheel, and oh God, he thought they would run off the road and roll over.

Then what?

But in the end, Toris beat the vehicle back into submission, clearly a master of driving on ice with even one hand, and when he looked over, Ivan only smiled. As though confident that nothing would go wrong, and he would place a hand on Ludwig's shoulder in what he may have thought was a comforting manner.

It was not. He felt sick.

Even though they were going so slowly that he probably could have just opened the door and stepped out without even stumbling, there would simply be no jumping into this wintry hell. He had fallen victim to the mild snows of Brno, hadn't he, and how could he expect to overcome the wilderness of Siberia?

His uniform was itching terribly. He didn't dare move. The ushanka on his head was barely enough to keep the chill at bay, and he could not feel his nose.

Ivan saw him twitching this way and that, and leaned in, leering, "Are you cold?"

Ivan _knew _he was, the bastard, but Ludwig shook his head nonetheless, leaning against the window and trying to convey that he was not interested in holding a conversation. Ivan started talking anyway, and Ludwig only half-listened, watching the gleaming snow go by.

"You'll like where we are going. It's pretty. Big ballroom, lots of music, a whole orchestra! All the vodka you can drink, dancing. You'll meet lots of important people." He reached out, and ran a gloved hand down the fur of the hat, and Ludwig shuddered when he leaned in and whispered, "All of them will watch you, you know, because you are so pretty. But don't worry, I won't let them come near you. I'll keep you safe."

He froze. Oh God, oh _God_, what did _that _mean?

He did not have time to dwell on it, for Ivan leaned fully onto him, and wrapped him in his arms. His breath stopped, and he did not _dare _struggle, so intimidating was the Russian, but oh...

Shame. Embarrassment. And above all, such hopelessness.

This was _not_ what he had signed on for.

He was so frightened all of a sudden, and he sensed something _horrible_ on the horizon, and Ivan's arms were locked around him so strongly that he could barely breathe.

This was not the agreement. This was not the deal.

Not this.

He was panicking. There was no room to escape when everything took a turn for the worse.

Leaning down, Ivan rested his head on his shoulder, so close that he could feel his warm breath on his cheek, and he whispered, in a voice so soft that he could scarcely hear it through the thick fur of the ushanka, "Your brother, Gilbert? He's so grateful you saved him, you know? He's living enough for both of you now. Parties. I bet he throws lots of parties, doesn't he? I know men like that. Ha, I bet he hardly even remembers you now, he's having so much fun! Guys like that, you know how they are."

The nerve.

The fucking _nerve_!

Men like that.

He closed his eyes and bit his lip, longing to retort as the fire of anger lit up his cheeks, and he wanted so badly to say that that was ridiculous, that he _knew _Gilbert! They were brothers, they were connected by so much more than blood, and Gilbert would _never _forget him, and that Gilbert was probably sitting at home crying on Erzsébet's shoulder every night, and there was no _way _he was out roaming nightclubs so soon after such a traumatic experience, because he _knew _his _brother_.

He knew his brother.

...didn't he?

Okay. So Gilbert had let him down a lot before.

A _lot_.

But this was something so different. Gilbert would never forget him. Not like that.

...Gilbert would have done it for him.

"You were so brave! I could tell, when I first saw you, how brave you were. Not like him. He is a coward. He left you there, alone, didn't he? Abandoned you. You said you would do anything for him, but he wouldn't do _anything _for _you_. He must not love you very much, if he gave up on you so easily! What kind of brother is that? What a shame, after all you did for him."

His mind reeled.

His head hurt.

Idiot.

He knew nothing. Not a thing.

He didn't know Gilbert.

Gilbert had raised him.

"He got into trouble, and he waited for you to come save him."

Gilbert had protected him.

"And when you rescued him, what did he do? How did he repay you?"

Gilbert _loved _him.

"He isn't coming for you. You know that, don't you? That's why you are so angry, now, because he won't come for you like you came for him."

...but Gilbert had gone back to the world.

"But I would do anything for you. You left me on the train, remember, but I came back for you. I did not leave you behind to die in the snow. I came back. He won't."

And he was left in the dark.

"I came back. Your brother won't."

_Oh_.

Gilbert was gone.

Gilbert had left so many times before, no matter how he had begged him to stay. Stubborn, proud Gilbert. Gilbert did stupid things sometimes. But not like this. How had it ever come to this?

Gilbert would have done it for him.

...wouldn't he?

Oh, God, wouldn't he? Gilbert had made so many mistakes.

Where was Gilbert right now? Was he really in mourning?

_Wasn't _he?

Or was he...

"He doesn't remember you."

He had not forgotten Gilbert.

"He doesn't love you."

With the terrible words slithering though his head, he tried to shut down, and ignore the Russian's clever tongue, because they were only words, and what he and Gilbert had was far too strong to break so easily.

Gilbert.

He knew better than to listen.

But, oh, God...

The road was too long.

Gilbert wouldn't come back.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

As it turned out, at least one thing Ivan had said turned out to be true :

It was very pretty.

The road had seemed to go on for eternity, no doubt because of the languid pace of the vehicle, and it was not until the sun was beginning to settle over the West, a direction he yearned to continue heading, that they finally arrived in a small town.

It was quiet. Frozen. The buildings were very small and much, much older than the ones he had seen from the car in Mirny, and the trees here were taller and wider.

Across the horizon, the clouds were lit up pink and gold and deep red. The wind was so strong that the mighty trees were almost doubled in the middle, and the car shook so hard that he was sure it would be pushed off the road.

Somehow, they made it, safe and sound.

...well.

Maybe not 'sound'. Not really a good word to use when Ivan was slumped against your side, sleeping away and leaving no room for escape.

Ludwig was glad when they started creeping into the icy little streets. He raised his eyes to the window, trying to ignore the sleeping Ivan, and observed the environment.

At the center of the town sat a massive building, made of washed-white stones, covered in so many windows that there was scarcely space between them, its roof covered in deep red tile that contrasted starkly with the darkening skies and pale surroundings. Before it was a great courtyard, full of shining black vehicles that were waxed to perfection, and hanging out at the door, cigarettes in mouth, were two armed guards.

Their guns gleamed in the last remnants of daylight.

And when Toris parked the car and got out, when Ivan woke up and pushed open the back door and then dragged him out, when he was led to the door in a daze of pulse-racing adrenaline, when he was pulled through the doors and into a dimmed hallway lit up by low wall-lamps, and when Toris hung back with a look of apprehension, he realized that he walked out of the dungeon and into the snake pit.

He couldn't breathe. A horrible sense of dread started to creep up.

The hallway was long and empty, on either side of him were great staircases that curved upward, their destinations unforeseeable, and at the other end stood a closed door.

From beneath it streamed a bright, white light.

The gate to hell.

As he stood frozen in mounting horror, Ivan's hand flew down and gripped his waist as though worried he would try to flee, and he started in alarm when Toris suddenly came over next to him (_them_; they were standing so closely together that there was no shard of light passing between them for Ivan's iron grip) and crossed his arms.

Toris opened his mouth, but Ivan interrupted by saying, "Here."

Ivan's hands were suddenly upon him, straightening the odd wrinkle in his uniform and untying his ushanka, and it was with a furrowed brow that Ludwig stood still as he took his ushanka off and stuck it in Toris' waiting hands, and then Toris passed Ivan the military cap.

"It's not so cold in here," Ivan said, as he put the cap upon his head and smoothed his hair meticulously, and it was with a low whisper that he added, "I want them to see how pale your hair is. And you look so... So..."

He trailed off, brow furrowed.

And then Ivan muttered something under his breath and turned to Toris, and snipped, quickly, "Word?"

Toris, lips very nearly twitching into a sneer, only drawled, "Professional."

"Ah."

Ivan turned back, gripped him all the tighter, and with his other hand he bumped gently the top of Ludwig's head.

"Right. You look so professional."

Well, that may have been true, but he sure as hell didn't _feel_ that way.

He only averted his eyes as the anxiousness burned his chest, and then Toris finally spoke up.

"May I be _excused_?" he asked, voice low and clipped, and after a second of silence, Ivan reached up and waved his hand in the air dismissively. Toris inclined his head, turned on his heel, stepped onto a staircase, and then was gone.

He was gone. He had left Ludwig alone with the wolf. How could Toris have _left _him? When he knew so well how helpless he felt? When he knew what it felt like to be so _lost_?

Toris _left_ him.

But there was no time to dwell on Toris' betrayal, as Ivan turned him around again, and began to pull him not-so-gently to the door. With every step closer, he tried to float further away.

He did not know what lay in wait.

Closer.

He was so nervous.

In arm's reach.

Oh God.

The silver doorknob gleaming in the low light.

He was going to vomit. He felt faint. Then Ivan reached out his hand, and pushed the door, and they crossed the threshold.

Time stopped.

His pupils constricted. A great burst of light.

He froze up, momentarily blinded.

Ivan pulled him.

"Don't be afraid."

His eyes adjusted to the light, Ivan's hand tightened, he was tugged forward, and time sped back up.

And suddenly everything was loud and noisy and vibrant and _alive_, and the dramatic change in atmosphere made his head swim. There was music in the background. Everything was red. A flurry of bright color. The room was full of people.

He had not seen so many people since he had left Berlin behind. Certainly not in Ivan's quiet, calm, empty house.

Ivan led him into the midst of it all, and never for one second did he release the grip he had on his waist.

The noises filled his ears and hurt his head. He had gotten used to silence. Now he was surrounded on all sides by people.

Men came up and threw heavy hands down on Ivan's shoulder, shouting coarse greetings in Russian. Others kissed his cheek. Other still pressed their foreheads into his, and Ivan's confident smile never faltered.

And it struck Ludwig like a bolt of lightening, as the Soviet military stopped in their tracks in Ivan's wake, just how _influential _Ivan was.

How powerful.

He was all the more intimidating and inescapable for it.

Someone took Ivan's hand in a firm grip, and then looked at _him_, and smiled. A look towards Ivan, and a knowing smile, and then he was offered a hand.

The first rush of absolute adrenaline. Someone had noticed him. He broke free of his daze and took the offered hand, nodding his head with mechanical politeness, and Ivan's smile widened to show his high canines as others came forward, curious about the new man on Ivan's arm.

Everyone wanted to meet him. Everyone wanted to see him.

It was simultaneously thrilling and horrifying to be the center of attention.

The handshakes never seemed to stop.

It made him dizzy, whirling through clouds of cigar smoke and women in beautiful dresses and fur shawls, military men in full uniform with folded ushankas laughing to their officers, tables full of poker chips and bottles of vodka, the ceiling higher than heaven and just as bright from the magnificent chandeliers, and all the while the orchestra below was strumming out wondrous Viennese waltzes and tangos and foxtrots. The room was warm, the walls coated in deep-red velvet panels, the tablecloths a vibrant crimson, the carpet a dark burgundy, and out beyond the mess of tables there was a great dance floor; polished, stained oak.

He was twirled and dragged this way and that, and every time he was swirled around there was someone new to meet. Generals, officers, colonels, lieutenants, majors, every class of Soviet military, and then he met their wives, their mistresses, their escorts, hell, even their drivers! And they came from everywhere, like Toris had said. He heard clumsy German from some, Hungarian from a few, Russian from the others, and Ivan spoke to some of them in heavy English, and to each and every one of them Ivan would thrust him forward and say, eagerly, 'So-and-so, meet Colonel Müller, from the GDR.'

Müller?

That was the best Ivan could come up with in two weeks? He had hoped for something more...dramatic. König, maybe, or Von Falkner.

Not that it mattered, but, _oh_, he had to keep his mind occupied with _something _other than what was going on around him, and even when he saluted that automatic salute that Toris had beat into his head in the presence of generals, Ivan's hand was still stuck firmly around his waist. And everyone he met would look down at Ivan's hand, then send him the strangest of smiles, more of a leer, as though they knew that something was _off_, and he felt the flush of red on his cheeks as he was torn away and presented to another.

It was relentless. They just kept coming.

The whole time, Ivan just smiled. As if he somehow owned the world.

Ludwig could really only go along with him, and just pretend. What else could he do? All of these military men around, it's not like he could just turn around and punch Ivan in the nose and try to run.

He was stuck.

Ivan wanted him to meet everyone.

There was a snag halfway down the road, and one of the men that Ivan led him up to turned around, glass in hand, and looked Ludwig up and down with a very critical eye. Ludwig held out his hand, mindlessly, but as soon as the word 'GDR' had dropped from Ivan's lips, the man lowered his eyes to Ludwig's hand, and wrinkled his nose.

Ludwig knew _that_ look.

Then the officer met Ivan's eyes, and said something in Russian, and Ludwig could tell from his tone alone that it was _not _polite. For a second, there was something shifting in Ivan's gaze, and his smile no longer showed his teeth. His fingers contracted on Ludwig's waist painfully, but then the man turned and stalked off, throwing harsh words over his shoulder, and Ivan stood completely still.

Almost in disbelief.

The horror that had been slowly evaporating came rushing back up as Ivan's smile fell a little more.

Sensing a dangerous stirring of rage beneath Ivan's tranquil surface, Ludwig said, lowly, in a lame attempt to prevent a possible explosion, "Well, no matter. What did he say?"

Ivan looked down at him, lavender eyes burning, and only shook his head.

But his inquiry did not go unanswered.

"He said," came a new voice from the side, and Ludwig turned to see a tall, very rough-looking man smoking a cigar standing next to him, "'I won't touch the hand of any goddamn, dirty _fashisty_.' You say, perhaps, fascist?" He trailed off, and lowered his cigar, adding, with a glance at Ivan, "I won't tell you what else he said. It would be obscene to say such things aloud."

Ludwig turned his eyes back straight ahead, pretending to be unfazed even though the words burned him, and the anger flowed in his veins like alcohol.

Fascist? He had spent his entire life in the West, in an atmosphere of lingering aggression towards the Nazi regime. And he hated _that_ word, more than any other.

Being called a fascist was not something he took lightly. Germans were struggling to reclaim their identity, to distance themselves from the shameful Third Reich, and Ludwig was no exception.

He hated that word.

Let him come back and say it to his face again. And he would see whose hand touched who.

Maybe it didn't matter anyway. The feeling was mutual, and he disliked Soviets, so they were, perhaps, even. He was a fascist? Let someone else say it more than some damn Red. Communist son of a bitch.

While they painted this frozen town up red, West Germany was thriving. Let them keep their snow huts.

With those rather hostile thoughts in his head, he felt a little better.

Then Ivan was suddenly pulling him along again, and resumed his introductions.

It felt like it lasted an eternity, the anger ever receding as he went, and when finally there was no one else to meet, Ivan dragged him over to a table and pushed him down into a chair. The flowers in the vase were as vibrant crimson as the tablecloth, and when Ivan uncapped the vodka and poured it into a small, fluted glass and pushed it in front of him, he grabbed it up and put it back with one tilt of his head.

He needed all the help he could get. His head was spinning.

Ivan poured him another, he took it quickly, and the whole while Ivan's eyes watched him with an almost curious intensity. Ludwig looked over when Ivan finally poured himself a glass, and even though his face was relaxed and calm, there was still something sharp and dangerous in his eyes.

Still brooding, no doubt.

Someone suddenly stood in front of him, and when he looked up, a bit anxiously, he recognized the man who had answered his quiet question.

"May I sit?" he asked with a smile, but he did not wait for Ludwig to answer before he pulled out a chair, and he extended his hand. "Major Pavlov. Remember?"

Ludwig nodded, taking the hand.

The major smiled, and inclined his head towards Ivan, who only shrugged. They sat in a moment of silence, as Ivan refilled the glasses with a strange half-smile.

The man before him, observing him, finally spoke.

"Colonel Müller," he drawled, cigar in hand as the silver fur of his ushanka gleamed in the light, "From the GDR, eh? You look like a very, ah, how do you say, _stern _man. Very tough. Very strict." Ludwig watched him, and made no effort to disprove this statement, keeping his eyes cool and narrowed and body stiff and looking very much like the 'asshole' that Alfred had always called him. "Tell me, Colonel, how do you handle such insubordination as that?"

He waved his hand over across the room, towards the officer that had refused Ludwig's handshake, and the expectant smile on his face made Ludwig shudder.

But, feeling somewhat aggressive and knowing that Ivan was watching him and expecting, he leaned across the table and said, casually, "Major, I don't know how your camp does things, but I would have my _Stasi_ remove his hand. One finger at a time, of course."

The words were stern, but his heart was thudding in his chest. He worried that they would sense it, and pounce.

He looked like them, but he was not the same.

For a second the major sat still, but then he threw back his head and laughed, and Ivan laughed too.

Ludwig did not.

Ivan reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, and leaned forward, saying to the major, "Ah, this is where Colonel Müller and I differ. You see, he would remove the hand of the officer; I, however, would remove the hand of his wife. That way he suffers more, you see, and every time he helps her from their car he must sit her on the left side, so she does not her lose her, what's the word, _balance_ by leaning too far to the right."

They laughed some more, Ivan poured them all another round, and Ludwig only stared blankly ahead, knowing that behind the metaphor of the officer and his wife there was himself, and Gilbert.

The unspoken conclusion was that, for every time Ludwig acted out, Ivan's punishment would cross many borders and fall on Gilbert.

Gilbert.

And that was why he sat here now, wasn't it, doing everything Ivan wanted of him. That was why he sat here in this ridiculous uniform, wearing this ridiculous hat, confirming this ridiculous façade of a colonel, listening to these ridiculous men speak, and playing with disgusting efficiency the role of the belle of this ridiculous ball.

For Gilbert's sake.

He took his shot, wincing as it burned his throat, and it was with relief that he finally felt the first splash of warmth.

The first stirrings of tipsiness.

Ivan poured him another. And another.

He took them.

Always for Gilbert's sake. Gilbert's constant fuck-ups had always fallen back on him.

Another glass. He took that one, too. He had a feeling he would need much more to survive this night.

Zoning out as the major and Ivan began to hold a conversation in Russian, he rested an elbow on the table, watching the room with only the faintest of recognition.

Such a grand party.

Was Gilbert at such a party right now? Was he sitting at a table with people he did not really know, drinking shot after shot as music played and people danced? If so, were his eyes following people with active interest? Did he engage well in conversation? Did he laugh sincerely? Did his smile reach his eyes?

If Gilbert was partying and drinking, as Ivan had suggested, then Ludwig could have easily forgiven it if only it were a desperate attempt to fight off depression. If only he drank shot after shot, not hearing the music that played and staring past the people he sat with. If his eyes were cloudy and unfocused. If he responded to conversation with simple shrugs and nods. If his laughter was forced and fake. If his smile foundered halfway.

Anything that would suggest that his mind was still on his brother.

But if Gilbert was _really _having fun, so soon, and thought no more of him...

He could not bear it.

Maybe it was selfish of him—it _was _selfish, he was certain—because, after all, hadn't his sacrifice been for just that purpose? Had he not offered himself in his brother's place so that Gilbert could go back home and resume life as normal?

Hadn't that been what he had wanted? Maybe he was as horrible a person as Ivan was.

For wanting Gilbert to be caught up in a wave of depression, replaying the past over and over again until he went crazy, for wanting his brother to be as hopeless as he himself was, for wanting his brother to live the rest of his life in a miserable grey fog, like _he_ was doomed to.

That wasn't fair. He was selfish.

Ashamed for thinking such terrible things, he came back to reality with a lurch of regret. When his eyes cleared, he saw that the major had gone, and the bright lights of before had gone down to a mere dim. He looked up at a great clock on the wall.

Eleven thirty. Almost midnight. He had been out in space for some time.

Gilbert.

He missed Gilbert. He wanted Gilbert to miss him. Was that so much to ask?

"Thought I lost you, for a minute there," came a heavy whisper at his side, and when he turned, he was nearly nose to nose with Ivan, and shivered.

Ivan only reached out and brushed the line of his jaw with a balled fist, almost a gentle bump of camaraderie, and Ludwig realized that the Russian had a very good head-start down the road of drunkenness. It was almost a relief, because a drunk Ivan was an Ivan that could possibly be outmaneuvered, if need be.

For one thing or another.

Then again, he realized, as the heat ran through his veins, maybe he wasn't that much better off.

Ivan stared at him, chin held up in his palm, a smile on his face.

He couldn't bear that gaze. He broke away and looked around, helplessly.

Where was Toris? Why could they not just lead Ivan upstairs to sleep off the vodka, and when he passed out, they could both creep down the stairs in the dead of night and get in the car and drive away, not stopping for anything until they reached the last border of the Eastern Bloc, and he could go _home_...

"Do you waltz, Ludwig?"

The whisper caught him off guard, and he glanced over to where Ivan sat, swirling a half-empty glass in his hand as he stared across the table unabashedly. Ludwig lowered his brow in annoyance, and when Ivan's lips turned up into a dangerous leer, he turned his head away as his heart raced, and muttered, primly, "I don't dance."

His hands were already shaking.

"Oh? That's a shame," the Russian grunted, and finished off his drink with a tossed head. Slamming the glass onto the table with a wince, he turned his attention back to Ludwig, and the pink flush on his cheeks gave away his intoxication. Daring himself another quick glance, Ludwig could not help but shudder under his heavy, prying gaze, knowing full well exactly what was running through his mind as he looked him up and down.

"Maybe a private lesson would make you feel less...how do you say? Uncomfortable?"

"No, thank you," he ground out, and Ivan leaned back, eyes lidded and brow high.

And then he started laughing, and Ludwig felt the adrenaline in his veins when he reached out and grabbed up his hand within his own. Turning his head, Ivan acknowledged a different table, and said, voice slightly slurred, "Do you see that table there? Do you know what they are doing?"

He looked, despite himself, and saw four men with cards in hand, and walking around them all was a beautiful dark-haired woman, her expensive jewelry sparkling in the light, and Ludwig could only shrug a shoulder, his attention more focused on Ivan's hand around his own.

It was heavy. Warm.

"Poker. So?"

"Ah," Ivan said, and now he met Ludwig's eyes with excruciating clarity. "They are playing very, very, what's the word? High-stakes? Very high-stakes. You see that man there—" he pointed "—that man is a Romanian captain. That woman is his mistress. He ran out of money, so do you know what he bet? He bet her." Ludwig's adrenaline rush slowed into a cold dread, and Ivan continued, nonchalantly, "Here, for tonight, you can bet _anything _you want."

A sudden cheer, and a man at the table threw down his cards victoriously. The woman came up behind him, placing her pretty hands on his broad shoulders, and the defeated captain took a shot of vodka with a groan, looking only moderately disappointed.

Just business as usual, as the woman (_his_ woman) laid hands upon another.

"You see the corporal just won her, don't you? Now, she is his property. They'll spend all night up in a room—"

They stood, the corporal leading the woman towards the door, and then they were gone.

"—and in the morning, do you know who she goes home with?"

What was _wrong_ with these people?

Numb and horrified, Ludwig could only whisper, voice barely audible above the chatter, "The corporal?"

"No. The captain! You see, Ludwig—I love saying your name, I really do—whatever happens tonight is law. But, in the morning, everything goes back to normal, and everyone goes back to where they belong as if nothing had happened. But when they're here, it's their own private play-land. Whatever they could want. Anything goes tonight. Anything. Just fun."

He paused, running his thumb absently against the top of Ludwig's hand, and then he snorted.

"You know, I bet Toris once!"

Ludwig froze up at his casual words, heart stopping and breath leaving him, and _Christ_, he would not wish such a thing on his worst enemy. He looked over at the other table with wide eyes, and in his mind he could see Toris, pale and anxious and so listless, standing behind Ivan, looking down at his cards from behind and praying, praying, that Ivan had a damn good hand.

"But lucky for him," Ivan said, with a sickening seriousness, "I won."

He suppressed his sigh of relief, and hung his head. Maybe Toris was much braver than he gave himself credit for.

Or much more hopeless.

Ludwig's relief fled quickly, when Ivan leaned in and whispered deeply, "I could bet _you_, if I wanted to."

There was no humor in his voice. The thumb kept on swirling around on the top of his hand.

He felt sick.

Oh...

He just wanted to go _home_.

Past his rising nausea, Ludwig could only smile breathlessly over and assure himself that Ivan could bet him all he wanted to, alright, but he would kill or be killed before he was led away to an upstairs room or out into the backseat of some car.

Ivan leaned in farther, reaching up and taking his collar, and he was so close that Ludwig could feel his breath on his eyelashes as he added, "But I wouldn't. Not _you_. Betting you would be too grand a prize, you see, because you're beautiful, and a German." He released Ludwig's collar and fell back into his chair, looking very flustered and dizzy, and it was with a sloppy smile that he took up another shot. "Around here, a German goes for a lot more than a Pole or a Serb, or even a Hungarian..."

His hands fell into his lap, and for a moment, he looked almost like a child. Smiling eagerly, cheeks flushed and his ushanka lopsided, chest heaving with deep breaths as he fought with intoxication, eyes lit up and curious and maybe amused.

Even now, he was still frightening.

And then he pulled himself to his feet, standing tall and imposing above, and extended a hand.

"Come dance with me."

Ludwig did not even have time to respond before Ivan had reached down and grabbed his upper arm, pulling him to his feet with one mighty tug.

The movement made him dizzy.

With surprisingly steady hands, Ivan took the cap from Ludwig's head and set it down upon the table, leaving him feeling somewhat exposed and vulnerable, and maybe a little less intimidating. Ivan's gloves joined the abandoned hat, and, with a firm grip, Ivan began to drag him down to the dance floor, and Ludwig tried to dig his heels in the carpet and keep himself back, but Ivan was too strong.

He looked around, and realized that all of the tables were now empty; everyone was down at the end of the room, in front of the orchestra, and oh _God_, he would die of embarrassment if Ivan led him out there and tried to dance with him in front of everyone.

He would keel over dead in mortification.

"I don't how to dance," he hissed, lowly and fervently, feeling the mortification growing, and he tried to break away. For a second, Ivan stopped in his tracks, and looked back at him with a sharp frown, as though he could not understand his reluctance.

A moment of silence, and then Ivan's smile returned with full force.

"You are worried," he said, and reached down, taking his hand and squeezing it. "Don't be scared. I'll show you how."

He looked around, and then he began to pull Ludwig back towards the front, where the light was much dimmer and there were no people. Only empty space, and he realized that he would not escape the inevitable, as Ivan came to a halt and then pulled him in front of him so that they were face to face.

His heart started up its mad dash.

For a terrible moment, Ludwig could only think about how utterly _absurd_ this whole situation was, and how, if they could have seen him standing here in this uniform, with Ivan's left hand on his waist and right hand intertwining in his fingers, Gilbert would have started crying in distress, Alfred would have started shrieking in horror, Roderich would have dropped on the floor dead from a heart attack, and Erzsébet would have only shaken her head in complete disbelief.

And they all would have been _so _ashamed.

So ashamed.

He could have never shown his face again. They would have shunned him.

Oh, no. No. He missed them. _Oh_, wasn't there _anyone_ out there that missed him, too? Would they reject him for this?

Just for this...

Ivan brought him back to earth by pulling him in as closely as possible, and whispering, "It will be harder on carpet, but I think it should be okay. Just listen to the music, and I will lead. Here, put this hand up, on my shoulder. We'll wait for the next one to start."

He could only stand there, heart racing in anticipation as Ivan listened to the music and waited, and then there was a final clash, and then a silence.

His hands were trembling.

He looked off to the orchestra, as the violinists were tuning their instruments, and Ivan only waited patiently, smile ever present.

He felt himself shivering. Not from the cold. A sudden clamor, and then the music started back up.

Ivan started moving.

He pulled him slowly at first, and kept his eyes on Ludwig's feet, quick to correct. "Loosen up a little. You're not moving fast enough." And he wasn't, for every time Ivan moved he was getting faster and faster, and Ludwig struggled to match his pace, clumsy and unbalanced.

Damn.

He was no great dancer. He never had been. His skills lied in the intellectual and efficient, on creating routines and plans, not on grace and elegance. He preferred the complexity and delicacy of international negotiations as opposed to the complexity and delicacy of waltzes and the strings of violins. Roderich and Erzsébet were wonderful dancers; he had watched them, sometimes, in their more relaxed moments, and the speed and ease with which they had moved had seemed out of reach for his heavy feet.

Roderich had taught him many things. Waltzing was not one of them.

He stumbled. Ivan was quick to chide.

"Listen to the music," the Russian repeated, and he closed his eyes, brow furrowed.

"How?" he muttered, agitated and nervous, and Ivan leaned down, pressing their cheeks together.

His breath was warm and laced with vodka.

"The violin is the leader. Listen to it, not the others. When it goes fast, so do you. It slows, so do you. It's easy once you get it. Just listen to the violins."

Ivan made it sound so easy.

Yeah, right. What a damn liar.

With a deep inhale to steady himself, and maybe a bit bolder because of the alcohol he had consumed, Ludwig tried to focus.

Left. Right. A turn here. Twist there. It was a pattern. All he had to do was find it. He did not like being helpless in any matters.

Even one as innocent as dancing.

A shift in the violin's pitch, and he moved his foot, and then the other, and then they moved together. The hand clenching his relaxed, just a bit, and suddenly things were going much more smoothly, and he _had_ it.

He had it.

A rise of triumph in his veins that he had broken at least one reliance on Ivan, and as he glided (a strong word; ha, more like slipping) this way and that, he could at least pretend that it was someone he cared for that stood before him. Roderich, maybe, or even big, clumsy Alfred.

But not Gilbert. Gilbert hated waltzes and tangos.

As he was pulled along, he could not help but smile to himself, and he remembered like it was yesterday...

He had been fourteen, young and impressionable, and he had sat on the living room floor of the Austrian embassy in Berlin, and Roderich had stood before him, and in the background there was a radio, playing an orchestral piece, and Ludwig had watched Roderich in wonder as he had explained (with closed eyes and very straight posture and a look of satisfaction) the subtle steps and the importance of body language while dancing with a partner. Erzsébet was sitting on the couch, sewing, smiling the entire while, and when Ludwig would look up at her, she would stifle her laughter as her husband floated across the room, speaking aloud and instructing. It had been a glimpse into a world that he did not know much about, but it had been quickly broken when Gilbert had stepped into the room, and with a look of mischief had snuck up from behind and changed the radio to rock and roll, and oh, how he had burst into uncontrollable laughter at the _look_ on Roderich's face as he had jumped into the air, furious, and Gilbert and Erzsébet had laughed, too.

He would give anything to go back to those days.

Wasn't someone looking for him?

"_Polozhis' na menya_."

And then someone suddenly nuzzled the top of his head with their lips, and the thin comfort of his imagination was broken as he heard whispered words in a language he did not understand. Because Roderich and Alfred did not speak Russian, did they?

He opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was the elegant embroidery of Ivan's shoulder patches. He raised his eyes, and above Ivan's shoulder there was only a whirl of deep red, breaking through the eerie low light. He looked over to his right, towards the great, luminous dance floor, and saw everyone swirling around like the tide, beautiful and well-dressed and very much at home.

Only he and Ivan were back here in the dark. No one was looking their way. No one even noticed them.

And no one missed him.

No one was looking for him.

To them, he was dead.

He was alone.

A lone violin screeched its furious passion above the flurry of the dancing crowd, and when Ivan pushed him forward suddenly, he stumbled, and lost the rhythm.

It was gone, and he could not seem to get it back.

But Ivan didn't stop, and now it was uncomfortable, as the large hand at his waist dug into his flesh painfully, and the other hand gripped his own in a crushing vice. He was pushed and pulled, and every time he lost his balance Ivan ripped him back upright with fervent fury, whispering chastisement in his ear. Whatever world he had slipped into for a while was no longer there. It was only Ivan, only the coldness of a different kind of world he knew nothing about, and the crushing hopelessness of despair.

Loneliness.

Ivan was relentless. The smell of vodka was overwhelming, but he did not have time to pull back; every time Ivan's lips brushed the side of his head, he was forced to watch his feet lest he trip over them. Everything was suddenly far too fast. He was getting dizzy, and Ivan was spinning and tossing him too vigorously.

It was too fast. He could not keep up.

The shrieking of the violin was ever quickening.

He could not keep up.

Too fast.

"You're too slow," Ivan murmured in his ear, breath warm, and without warning he began to drag Ludwig towards the very back of the room, dark and isolated and far out of the eye of the dance floor. The velvet panels that covered the walls were fluttering with the air from the heaters above that kept the room warm, and before he could even utter a word, before he could struggle in protest, one of the panels was lifted and he found himself pushed underneath, and bathed in darkness.

No light.

He couldn't see, but he could _feel_, and what he felt was making his mind reel with fright :

Ivan was pressing him back into the wall, rough hands pinning his arms to his sides, and even though he could not see him for the dark, he could smell him; the vodka was the strongest, and underneath the deep, spicy scent of wood and musk from the cologne he wore.

The heaviness against his chest and the darkness all around brought him to the verge of claustrophobia, and how he wanted to run, but he was frozen in place in silent terror, and then Ivan's head was right next to his own, hands pressing him against the wall on either side. He could hear the slur in the cool, smooth voice as Ivan whispered, "You're a terrible dancer."

What else was new?

"Toris is a beautiful dancer," he added, and Ludwig felt a rise of perhaps irrational anger in his chest.

He was not Toris. He would never be Toris.

Fuck Toris. Toris had _left_ him.

"But," Ivan continued, "he scares too easily. He used to cry a lot. I hate crying. That's why I like you so much, you see, because you are very strong. You don't frighten so easily. You are loyal. The only reason you are here now is because of your loyalty to your brother, no? You are a challenge. I like challenges."

A challenge. What kind of challenge? For what? To break?

He could only imagine.

Then Ivan's hands moved from his arms up to his chest, and then they grabbed up his collar, holding him up straight and still, and then Ivan was ever closer, warm and heavy. Ivan's lips pressed into his hair, and then against his forehead, and he moaned something in Russian, and the tremble in Ludwig's hands passed into his entire body.

Oh no.

Oh no. No, no, no, this was _not_ happening. Couldn't be. He was just drunk off in a corner somewhere, dreaming.

This couldn't be real.

It happened with excruciating slowness; a whisper in his ear, then a swift kiss on the tip of his nose, a hand raising from his collar to caress his neck, a horrible rush of blood to his cheeks as Ivan forced his chin up, and the air was thick and nearly impossible to breathe.

A moment of hesitation. His heart pounded in the dark.

Such a feeling he'd never known.

Fear. Adrenaline. Exhilaration.

_Horror_.

And then Ivan's lips crushed against his own, eager and intrusive and fearless, and he froze completely as a wave of fear that he had never known washed over him. The grip on his collar tightened, nearly cutting off his air, and never had he imagined that his first encounter with _romance_, and that word was a serious overstatement, would be like _this_. Pressed against a wall, helpless and immobile, in a faraway land, cut off from the outside world and in the arms of the enemy.

Alone.

He fell into a void. He lost track of time and space.

And above it all, above all of the panic and darkness and fear and loneliness, there was one thing that ran through his mind :

No one was coming to save him. No one.

He was alone.

The former world had been left behind. Oh God, to think that _this_ was all there was in his future...

Not this.

Ivan's enthusiasm was growing, and the hand that had held his collar was suddenly moving downward. A grip on his thigh, and he gasped in surprise, and Ivan leapt at the opportunity to slip his tongue in his mouth. The hand moved from his thigh to the belt of his pants, and when there was an intrusive tug, he broke out of his stupor with a lurch of panic.

He was not _that_ drunk, and he was _not_ that despondent.

Not yet.

Reaching up and pushing at Ivan's chest, he broke away, and hissed, hiding the tremor in his voice well, "Get _away_ from me!"

A long, tense silence.

He could not see him, but Ludwig could imagine the look on Ivan's face; utter disbelief.

Shock. As though, perhaps, no one had ever _dared _to defy him.

And maybe no one ever had, because his gentle voice turned sharp with intent, and it was with a grunt that he reclaimed Ludwig's collar and slammed him back against the wall with all of the strength he had.

His head hit the stone with sickening force, and he could only stand still, dazed and stunned, as Ivan leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Anhalter street, number six."

His blood froze, and Ivan scoffed with what could have been annoyance. As if he hadn't planned on this.

And that street...

His head was killing him.

"That's your flat, isn't it?" Ivan giggled in his drunkenness, shifting his feet a bit, and when he pressed his weight onto Ludwig to steady himself, he added, "You lived there with an American. You are good friends with Ambassador Edelstein. His pretty wife comes to visit almost every day. Your brother lives there now."

What? _How_?

Oh, _no_. None of this was right.

He shuddered as Ivan reached up, and clenched a hand in his hair, whispering heavily, "You see? I know everything about you. I put men around there, you know, to watch. Always someone is watching. That's how I know about your brother. That's how I know how happy he is. I have photos at home, of course, if you would like to see them. He's thrown out all of your things. You had photos in frames? They're outside now, in the trash. He wants to forget that you ever existed. The American moved out. Or maybe your brother kicked him out? Maybe he wants the house to himself, so he can bring over friends. I doubt much that he even remembers your name."

His bleary mind struggled to comprehend.

"He goes out to the bars a lot. Ha! My men can barely keep up with him, for all he goes out! It's a shame about your friend. I wonder where he went off to. The ambassador never comes over any more. I don't think he and your brother get along very well. A little sad, about those photos, though. Your friend was mad. I don't blame him! Well, it's not your fault. Who can ever choose who they call 'brother'. You deserved a better one, I think."

Ivan's German was very choppy and disjointed when he was drunk; barely comprehensible.

But he got the message, loud and clear.

His churning stomach was suddenly no match for the despair in his chest, and oh God.

Oh _God_, he would die if it were true. Because, oh God, Gilbert had always been somewhat uncontrollable and maybe completely cruel to other people's feelings at times, but never had he thought...

Never had he imagined...

That he would throw out all of their years together like so much garbage. Knowing what those photos had _meant_ to him, having no other childhood.

And Alfred. After all Alfred had done for him, to think of him moving _out_. They had bought that flat together.

It had been _theirs_.

Gilbert had no right to run Alfred out. No right. Gilbert had always been so unpredictable. So moody. So volatile.

The worst part of it all was that everything Ivan said, as awful as it was, all sounded like things that Gilbert was perfectly capable of, in the right mindset.

That was the worst part.

And it was true; Roderich and Gilbert had always hated each other. How would Ivan have ever known that, if he were just lying?

Could such a bold statement really be an even bolder bluff?

Did Ivan _really _have photos of Gilbert, smiling and happy and _free_, arm in a sling as he roamed the streets and barhopped, completely worry-free as he tossed out mementos, as he kicked Alfred out into the winds and shunned Roderich?

It was not possible.

But...

Ivan had known his address. Ivan had known about Alfred. Ivan had known about Roderich. Ivan had known about Erzsébet.

Oh.

Why would Ivan even bother? What was the point? Ivan had won; Gilbert was gone. Why lie to him and torment him all the further? What good would it do? It wouldn't change anything. He had made his decision.

No going back.

He wanted Ivan to be lying. But he wasn't sure. He wasn't _sure_.

The worst part.

He felt sick.

Ivan's giggles were only making him all the sicker, and he continued, lowly, "You Westerners speak so lowly of us, but it's amazing the kind of things one can purchase from the Western government. Greedy capitalists are as bad as the Soviet presidents. Don't you think?"

He could not speak, and he bowed his head, gritting his teeth to keep himself from screaming.

Ivan's fingers released his collar, and moved up to run through his hair. "I'm sorry. Did I hit your head too hard? I didn't mean to."

He didn't move, and didn't speak, as his head lit up with fire and his stomach filled with ice.

And then Ivan suddenly released him, and said, gently, "Go out and get some air. I'll wait here."

He didn't need to be told twice. He fled.

Groping blindly for the edge of the panel, he felt his way through the dark, and when he finally found the end of the fabric and burst back out into the fresh air and light, it was not with relief. Gasping to catch his breath and stumbling towards the door at the back, he left the ballroom in a panic and found himself back in the empty hallway.

Alone, he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hand.

His head was swimming. He thought he would faint. A horrible, gnawing longing in his chest.

Home.

He wanted to _cry_.

He could not stay here. He had to get out.

Looking around blearily, he tried to gather a sense of his surroundings. There were other doors lining the hallway, and the double staircases at the ends. He had a longing urge to run upstairs and find Toris and throttle him and ask him why he had never _told _him!

Why he had never told him about what was going on back in Berlin while he was stuck out here in the middle of fuckin' nowhere. Why he had never told him the truth. Why he had never told him that he really was alone. That no one was looking for him. That no one missed him anymore.

That everyone had just gotten over him.

Maybe he had overestimated Gilbert. Maybe he did not know his brother as well as he had thought. Maybe Gilbert really could move on so easily.

Or maybe the vodka and adrenaline in his veins were making him irrational.

Shouldn't've touched the vodka. He should have kept a clear head.

Well. Too late now. He felt dizzy with alcohol and hurt.

Pushing off the wall, he staggered forward, and opened the first door that he reached. He burst through it, hoping for a place to lie down, and stopped in his tracks when he realized he had accidentally stumbled into some kind of lounge.

Voices.

A fireplace crackled on the other end, and there were people on couches and sofas sitting, chatting amongst themselves, and when they saw him standing there in the doorframe, they all went quiet.

A moment of silence, and then they started to whisper, and his agitation was ever growing.

His head hurt.

They recognized him, no doubt, as Ivan's handsome new German.

He wasn't anyone's _anything_.

If he could speak Russian, he would have raised his arms in the air and told them, in not so many words, what they could all go off and do. Instead, a woman standing off to the side caught his eye, and after a second of hesitation, she smiled, teeth lit up in the firelight.

And all conversation resumed.

A man came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder, shoving a glass into his hand with words that he could not understand. Encouragement perhaps. He did not understand any of them. He did not understand how they could live in this treacherous world so merrily. How they could see so many injustices and turn away.

Didn't they know what he had done to get here?

The things he had given up?

The woman that had smiled at him came forward, and when she reached out and touched his arm, raising her pretty fingers up and down in languid movements, he raised the glass to his lips and drank it straight. She started speaking to him, her voice soft and gentle and sultry as she crooned, and he could only stare straight ahead at the fire, wondering, as the vodka flowed through his veins, why he had offered himself to the devil so willingly for someone who would not even keep a simple photograph of him to remember his face.

Maybe the devil was not the one he had assumed it to be.

The vodka was kicking his ass. He couldn't focus.

Someone came up and refilled his glass.

He drank it.

Even though he knew he shouldn't. Couldn't help it.

The woman's voice was pleasant in his ear as her fingers crept down and wound up in his belt. She tugged him towards herself, and when he stumbled and fell up against her for his intoxication, she smiled up at him with a leer, biting her bottom lip in shameless flirtation, and reached up with her other hand to stroke his cheek.

Voice lowering into a purr, she whispered, in very broken speech, "You German? Is okay! I _like_ Germans. Very handsome."

He looked over at her, through blurry vision, and couldn't help but enjoy a little bit her, ah, friendliness. Her fingers released his belt and started to trace down the line of his pocket.

A little too low.

And maybe, just maybe, he would have let her do as she pleased if there hadn't been an unwelcome intrusion. A sudden shadow blocked the light of the fire, and when he raised his eyes, he saw a somewhat familiar face before him. It took the shaking of his head to clear it, and a moment of thought, to recognize the man.

It was the one that had refused his handshake.

Ah. Right. That 'fashisty' jerk.

From the look on his face now, as he held a glass in his hand and eyed Ludwig up and down, the lingering feeling of dislike was still there. And, as before, it was still mutual.

Only Ivan was not here this time to mediate.

Apparently, he had not agreed with the woman's apparent like of Germans. Too bad. Here he was.

Without Ivan, who knew how things would play out. The other realized it as well, and after a thorough looking over of the room, he opened his mouth, and began to speak, eyes alight with malice.

Ludwig turned his eyes back to the woman at his side, trying his best to focus on her hands rather than the tone of voice rising above the quiet chatter.

It was hard, and even her smile had fallen, as she turned a stern, nasty gaze to the officer babbling away before them.

Ludwig was glad for once that he couldn't understand.

Someone from behind giggled, and he heard Ivan's name amidst the Russian, and he could only imagine the obscenities that were coming out of the officer's mouth. Innuendos and insinuations, disgusting suggestions and dirty jokes, and he felt his blood rising.

Now, not even the warm hands around his beltline were enough to keep the agitation at bay.

He was starting to loose his cool. No matter how hard he tried not to.

The woman started speaking again, murmuring in his ear in an attempt to distract him.

It worked a little, maybe; the officer began to laugh, and Ludwig tried to appear calm and collected, smoothing his hair with his hands and trying his best to smile, as if unfazed.

They would not get to him. He'd gone through too much to be undone by a few hostile words. This would not break him. The urge to start a fight, although strong, was still controllable.

Meeting the man's eyes, Ludwig turned up his chin and scoffed, saying, as casually as he could for the slur creeping into his voice, "Why don't you fuck off and go lick Ivan's boots? All of you seem to be good at that. Didn't have so much to say earlier! Scared of him? Or are you scared of me? Huh? _Fashisty_? That it?"

A silence.

His head was killing him.

Maybe the officer didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone, and it was with a curse of malice that he suddenly tossed the contents of his glass straight into Ludwig's face.

Fire.

"_Shit_," he cursed automatically, hands flying up to his eyes as the vodka burned them like mace, and as the white dots of pain danced before the dark, everything went painfully quiet.

He could hear only the racing of his heart. Blood pounding in his ears.

No one spoke now.

Just silence.

He tried not to wince as he rubbed in vain at his eyes.

The officer said something else, voice barely a hiss, and even though he did not speak Russian he knew that it was something exceedingly offensive, because the woman behind of him let out an indignant gasp.

The hatred that was squirming into his chest burned as much as the vodka did.

He was on the edge of the cliff. His patience was wearing thin.

..._no one_ was coming to save him.

He was on his own.

Finally, he squinted open his eyes, as the pain dulled and his vision cleared, and he could see, with a horrible lurch of his stomach, that _everyone _was watching. Everyone was staring at him. No one spoke. Feeling mortified and embarrassed, he reached up trembling hands and swept his dripping bangs out of his eyes with all of the composure that he could muster, pulling himself up straight and raising his chin high.

If he could only cling to some remnants of dignity...

Some part of himself. He tried.

Then the officer spit on the ground before him, and it was too much.

Too much. Far too much.

Sick with adrenaline and frustrated and unspeakably _angry _(and maybe at someone _other _than Ivan and this disrespectful officer_)_, he could not help himself; he leapt forward with the speed of a tiger, and before he even realized what he was doing his fist had connected with the officer's face.

The woman's hands contracted on his belt in an attempt to hold him back, but it was no use; she wasn't strong enough.

He broke free of her grip, and charged.

He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten into a fight. The last one had been with Gilbert. Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He'd never gotten into a fight with anyone _but_ Gilbert.

Stupid, stupid Gilbert.

The officer hadn't expected him to move. Maybe it had been a little bit of a sucker punch, but hardly less than the son of a bitch deseved. The office fell backwards at his surprise blow, and Ludwig was on top of him, and it was through a haze of red that he pulled back his arm and hit him again.

The woman from behind started to screech, as she tried to grab the fabric of his uniform and pull him back.

Too late.

He had never been so angry in his entire life.

He hit him again.

Because how could Gilbert?

And again.

How _could _he?

And again.

_How could he?_

And again.

He'd given up everything.

And again.

Everything.

And again.

His _life_.

There was no longer any resistance from beneath him, but still he hit him, and he did not stop until someone had suddenly come up from behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him back so hard that he fell onto the floor.

Not that girl. She couldn't have had the strength.

"That's enough!"

He looked up, and the red haze faded into a dull, throbbing grey when he saw Ivan standing up above him, eyes stern and brow low.

Ivan.

Damn. Why had he interfered? He was not finished yet.

Because Gilbert had forgotten him.

He lied there for a moment, stunned, and the woman stood before Ivan and spoke quickly, motioning with her arms as she no doubt explained what had happened.

He tried to gather himself. He couldn't seem to breathe. His hands were shaking. Chest heaving and trembling with adrenaline, he looked over to the side.

The officer just lied there.

Gilbert was in the West, safe and sound.

He was in Siberia.

It wasn't fair.

He had told Gilbert to _wait_. He had told Gilbert to be _patient_. Not fair.

The officer groaned a little, and shifted.

Motherfucker. Time to hit him some more.

Pulling himself to his feet, he did not feel the pain in his hand, or notice that his knuckles were bloody and raw, and when he took a step towards the fallen officer, Ivan came forward and moved into his path. He tried to go around him. Ivan blocked him. He went to the other side. Ivan blocked him again.

His intoxication made it far too difficult to get around quick Ivan.

He tried again. Ivan blocked him. He could not stand it.

Someone had to pay for the aching in his heart. Someone needed to bear the brunt of this frustration.

Of this unfairness.

"Go back in the hall," Ivan said, voice cool and very serious, despite the red of his cheeks, "and wait for me there. I'll come for you later. I will handle this."

He did not need someone to handle things for him. He was perfectly capable of dealing with offenses himself.

"Move," he said, and tried to shove past.

It was like trying to shove a bull, and Ivan refused to move.

"Go on, I said. It will be taken care of."

He clenched his fists at his sides.

"Move."

"Get out."

"Let me _by_."

Ivan's cool voice was becoming angry.

"I said go!"

_Go_?

Where the fuck could he _go_? Where could he go? There was nowhere to go. He was alone. His home was gone.

Gilbert had gone.

He remained.

He snapped.

"_NO_!"

He turned on Ivan like a wolf, throwing all of his fear aside, and with one great burst of defiance he reached out and shoved Ivan with all of his might. The huge Russian staggered back only a foot at his efforts, and probably only that because of his drunkenness, but he was not deterred. In front of all of them, regardless of who was watching, he shoved Ivan's chest again, and again, and again, screeching at the top of his lungs, "_No_! I won't! This whole thing is _your _goddamn fault! You ruined everything! _Everything_! Everything would have been alright if it hadn't been for _you_! All of this is your fault! All of it!"

Ivan just stood there, and stared down at him with a low brow and pursed lips.

He stomped his foot, and shoved Ivan one final time, just for the hell of it, as the anger began to turn into a terrible, numbing despair. "I _hate _you for it! We were good before all of this happened! If it weren't for you damn Russians and your damn wall! You cut off _everything_, and I couldn't _ever_ see him! _That's why_ he was so stupid! _That's why_ he tried to blow you all to hell! _That's why_ he got caught! You should have just shot him! You should have just shot _me _back in Berlin and _done me a favor! _I would rather have _died _than to come here and hear all of this and, oh, _Christ_, oh God almighty, he was so _stupid_! How could he have been so fuckin' stupid? He made me... He made me..."

Oh, God, Gilbert.

Gilbert. Gilbert had been everything. He had nothing.

His strength left him, and he fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands as he gave in to his despair, and everything was so _wrong_.

He had made his decision. He just hadn't known it would feel this awful.

He _loved_ Gilbert.

But sometimes...

Sometimes, all Gilbert did was let him down. This whole thing was Gilbert's fault.

If he could have just been patient...

"I gave up everything for him," he finally moaned, to no one, and there was the shuffling of Ivan's coat as he knelt down before him on one knee and grabbed his collar. With one mighty yank, he was lifted to his feet, and it was Ivan's eyes that bored into his own, and it was Ivan who was smiling and running a soothing hand up and down his back.

Not Gilbert. Gilbert would never smile at him again.

He could not bear it.

Gilbert wasn't looking for him. Gilbert had gone on with life. And it wasn't fair. When had it ever come to this?

Those photos had meant _so_ much.

So much.

"How could he be so stupid?" he whispered, caught under Ivan's impenetrable gaze and feeling sick, "I gave up _everything _for him. I would have done _anything _for him. And all I wanted...was for him to never _forget _me. If he hadn't been so stupid. Why couldn't he have just waited? Didn't he know something like this could happen? Why doesn't he ever think?"

Gilbert had always done such stupid things. Gilbert couldn't ever stop to think about others.

Look where it had gotten them.

Ivan was upon him, then, wrapping him in arms, maybe a master of sensing weakness, and he whispered, "He's a fool, that is why. Men like that. You can't change them, even if you try. He is who he is. It's not your fault. It's his. All of it. You did what you had to do." Ivan pulled him close, and as he led him along, he leaned in and added, in a whisper, "You were so brave! And I would never forget you. Not like that. I won't ever let you down like that. I'll take care of you."

He was pulled to the door, and it was with a blurry mind that he was led out of the threshold and then up the stairs, and he could hear Ivan's voice in his ear the entire time, cool and soothing, and for one delirious moment, he felt a little better.

Just a little.

Beating the hell out of someone had calmed his nerves a bit.

Gilbert had always called him 'little brother', but he'd never been there when Ludwig had _really_ needed him. He'd just wanted someone that he could rely on. Was that such a great thing to ask for?

Ivan crooned away in his ear as they climbed the stairs.

His head swam with the vodka. He could barely see.

A twisting of hallways above, doors with numbers on them, and then Ivan stopped in front of a room, and pushed him against the wall.

Ivan leaned in, and against his chest to steady him, and he smiled.

"Wait here. I'll be back."

He could only nod, dumbly, and Ivan reached into his pocket, and pulled out a key. With steady hands, he unlocked the door, pushed it open with stealth, and slipped inside.

Ludwig waited.

Leaning against the wall and feeling rather dazed, thanks in no small part to the overwhelming emotions, he looked down with a wince when his hand began to throb.

Blood dripped down. He had hurt the officer pretty well, he imagined. Ah, served him right. He'd brought it on himself. It had felt damn good, too. To relieve some of that terrible tension in his chest. To take out his anger on someone.

He couldn't take it out on dumb Gilbert.

Gilbert was gone.

He wondered if the others had pulled the officer up to his feet and led him to a couch somewhere and given him some vodka so he could nurse his wounds. Ha. He'd better start getting it back together soon, for he was certain that his blows would be absolutely nothing compared to whatever it was that Ivan had in mind for the officer, because hadn't he said that he would take care of it? Ivan did not seem one to say such things lightly and without reason, not just empty threats or grim jokes—

A gunshot.

He jumped in fright, heart racing in sudden alarm, and he looked around in a bleary panic, thinking the officer had come after him with a damn gun. He scanned the halls, as well as he could for his bleary gaze, and saw nothing.

No one there.

He fell back against the wall, and just when he thought that he was hearing things, there was a dull thud from within the room.

It had come from within.

He should have just waited. He knew he should have. But he couldn't help himself.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, he grabbed the doorknob, and twisted it. It clicked open, and with a deep breath, he pushed the door open gently and stepped quietly inside.

He should have turned around.

The room was pretty, neither too small nor too large, and the curtains above the windows were red. He stepped around the corner, and the bed came into view. The sheets and covers were red. Flowers on the end table. A radio on the dresser.

Ivan stood there, beside the bed, his ushanka held under his arm. He was staring down at something, almost thoughtfully, head tilted and lips pushed out as he patted a gun against his leg airily.

Ludwig took a step closer, and saw that the carpet was red, too, but not because it had been colored that way.

It was red because it was being soaked through with blood.

On the floor, lying completely still and inert, lied a woman. He dared himself to take a step closer, as his eyes widened and his head began to ache, and when he came close enough, Ivan looked back at him, looking for all the world as though he had just completed a business transaction.

Their eyes met.

Ivan finally raised his brow, shrugged a shoulder, and put his gun away.

The air was heavy.

Ludwig looked down at the motionless woman. She was on her side, beautiful dress stained with dark blood, and from beneath her spread a growing red pool. The bullet hole in her chest was immediately obvious.

She was pretty. Well. She _had_ been pretty. A woman he had never met.

And never would.

Somehow, he knew damn well who she was.

The officer's wife. Innocent.

He fell back, as the dizziness and nausea overcame him.

A fog of shock.

He looked up, meeting Ivan's eyes through the mist with numb disbelief.

Ivan only snorted, humorlessly.

"I should have removed her hand," he said, simply, as he took up one of the flowers from the vase, smoothing his hair as if nothing had happened, "but I shoot her instead." Ivan's unreadable lavender eyes bored into his own, and then he smiled. "Do you know why I do this?"

Ludwig could only shake his head, having no words for what he felt.

"I shoot her now," Ivan said, voice low and husky, "because you suffer for your brother. She must be willing then, too, to suffer for her husband. When you commit to someone, it must always have consequences. Her husband's fault. Not yours. Do you understand? Not yours. No offense to you will ever go unpunished. I promise you that. No matter how small."

Ivan advanced a step forward, and reached out, running a hand down his neck with what could have been an attempt to comfort.

"I did that," he pointed to the body, "for you. I would do anything for you."

_I would do anything for you._

He shuddered.

Ivan took the flower in his hand, and set it down gently upon the bed.

He couldn't stop staring at her.

Looking back, Ivan saw his wide eyes and racing pulse, and reached out to take his chin, forcing him to look up and lock eyes.

"Hey! D'you hear me? It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

'No', he wanted to say, 'but she didn't, either.'

He stayed silent.

Because, when he thought about it...

Ivan was right, in a way.

Sometimes, committing to someone just brought trouble. Because it had been Gilbert's stupid mistake that had brought all of this upon him.

Ivan was right. He suffered for Gilbert. Why should he be the only one?

It wasn't fair.

The officer had fucked up, like Gilbert had. So his wife paid the price, like Ludwig had. It was wrong, and it was horrible, and it was the most disgusting form of cruelty that he had _ever_ seen, but Christ almighty...

He just wanted someone else to hurt like he was.

His head hurt.

Gilbert had let him down.

Ivan took his hand.

"You can always depend on me."

He _needed_ words like that.

Ivan, whatever else could be said about him, did what he said he was going to do.

That was more than he could say about Gilbert.

It was wrong. He knew it was.

Yet he could not stop the sickening thrill of morbid exhilaration that ran through him, if only _because _of the danger, and knowing that Ivan had _murdered _someone only to defend some shred of honor that he no longer possessed was strangely fascinating, if not disturbing and sickening.

He hated himself for even thinking it.

But if Gilbert was not coming for him...

"Come."

If Gilbert did not miss him...

"We must go now."

_Forever._

Then he could only cling on to the dark night, and pray that whatever sins he committed before the dawn would be forgiven.

He was alone.

If no one was looking for him...

What else could he do?

Because if Gilbert did not remember him, if his big brother no longer thought about him, then there was at least someone who would protect him from this freezing, merciless world.

At least until he could find a way out.

But, he wondered dizzily, as Ivan took his hand and pulled him away from the scene of the crime, who, then, would protect him from Ivan?

Ha. Who could?

Maybe it didn't matter. Whatever happened would happen, one way or another. In all honesty, if Gilbert had gotten over him, then he didn't care.

He didn't care.

If he lived, suffered, died out somewhere in the snow, lost himself in the mists of nothing, then so what? Gilbert had been everything. Without him, who cared? Just let it all happen.

He was tired.

If Gilbert had forgotten him, then what else was there to do except lie down and die?

Until then, he could take a little comfort in Ivan's soothing words.

Because Ivan was always at his side. Gilbert wasn't here.

_I promise..._

Ivan was here. Gilbert was _gone_.

_That no matter what happens..._

Ivan was not going anywhere. Gilbert was not coming back.

_I won't ever leave you._

Gilbert had forgotten him. And Ivan would kill for him.

_Together._

He didn't care.

He had never belonged anywhere. He had never fit in. He had never been meant to be happy. It hadn't ever been in his stars. Nothing had ever worked out for him.

There had always been something _wrong_ with him.

Gilbert had taken his place in the world.

Gilbert, who had a name and a lineage that he could trace, who had a past and a future, who had friends to support him in his time of need, and who would probably do better on his own.

_He_ had never been _anyone_. Maybe it was better this way. He didn't care anymore.

He hated Ivan.

He hated himself more.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

He was lost.

Alone. Freezing.

He did not know where he was.

His head hurt.

It was very cold outside, and his shirt was too thin. He wrapped his arms around himself and walked down the streets, head bowed and feet numb. People passed by; no one looked down at him. He was not paying attention to where he was going.

Everything was grey and blurry and foggy.

Where was he? Wouldn't anyone find him? Did anyone miss him? Wasn't there someone looking for him?

He wandered. His bare feet were cut and sore, as he walked the dirty pavement. He wanted someone to find him, and take him home.

Even if he didn't know where 'home' _was_.

He bumped into something warm and hard, and for a second he could only stare at the pavement in dumb immobility, too cold and sad and lonely to really think, and then someone knelt down in front of him and placed warm, heavy hands upon his shoulders.

_'Oh! I'm sorry. Are you okay?'_

He looked up; a handsome man, kind and regal, was kneeling before him, and he looked down at him with a furrowed brow, and from behind his glasses there was something that looked like concern.

Who was this man?

_'Are you lost? Are you okay?'_

Was this his father?

_'What's your name?'_

His name? He didn't know his name. Had he ever had one?

He couldn't remember.

The man called out for someone, hands never leaving his shoulders, and then suddenly there was a woman kneeling before him as well. A beautiful woman, very young, hair tied up under a wool cap, and she smiled at him with the most expressive eyes he had ever seen. She looked worried, and maybe somehow _happy_, and he could only stare back at her with silence, and he felt a strange stir within his chest.

Had he found his parents? He had been looking out here for days.

_'Hey... What happened to you? Where are your parents?'_

Weren't _they_? He bowed his head, lost for words, and then the woman reached down and took his hand, as the man smoothed his hair with his fingers. They stood, and he walked in between them as they conversed with each other above him.

_'What should we do with him?'_

_'I don't know. He's lost, poor thing.'_

The woman gripped his hand.

_'Do you have parents?'_

He shook his head, and they spoke again amongst themselves.

_'We should take him to the police station.'_

_'Oh, no, Roderich! They'll put him in an orphanage! Can't we take him?'_

_'Take him? Us? But we don't know anything about him!'_

_'I can't bear to leave him here! Why don't we just take him, for now, and you can try to find his parents once we get back to Berlin?'_

_'Well... Alright. Let's take him.'_

_'Oh! Roderich! He's cute, isn't he? Maybe we can...'_

_'Not so fast.'_

_'...I know.'_

He let them lead him where they would, and now he looked straight ahead as he walked, because now he had found someone that would help him, that would care for him, even though he did not know where he was or who he was or where he had come from, or who _they _were.

But still he could not smile.

He just didn't feel like it.

They stopped at a corner, and the man made a call on a payphone, and then they were off again. They walked until they reached a vehicle, full of shopping bags, and the woman got into the backseat with him as the man drove. She held him in her arms, and he laid his head against her chest, hands clenching the fabric of her shirt.

_'I'm Erzsébet! Do you have a name?'_

He shook his head.

_'Can I think of one for you?'_

He nodded.

_'What about...Rudolf! I love that name, Rudolf.'_

_'Rudolf? Erzsébet, at least think of a good one. What about Leon? Or Johan?'_

They began to argue amongst themselves, but he did not care, as he drifted into sleep, warm and comforted and feeling much less lost.

He had _known_ that there was someone out there looking for him. They had been meant to encounter each other.

The ride passed quietly, as the woman ran her fingers through his hair and crooned away words of comfort.

He awoke hours later, as the woman shook him, and then they were pulling him out of the car and out towards a very tall, elegant stone building, one of them on either side, each of them holding one of his hands within their own. Inside the building, they went into the hallway and then up the stairs, and when they opened a door and passed through, there was someone else standing there.

The woman was smiling.

_'Hi, Gilbert! Did you get everything ready for us?'_

_'Sure did! Is this him?'_

He looked up as another man was suddenly before him, staring down at him with curious, enthusiastic crimson eyes, very pale, silvery hair shining in the light. He stared right back, and something about _that _man was different. Strong and wild and somehow comforting.

_'Gilbert, what do you think of Rudolf? Don't you think Rudolf is a pretty name?'_

_'Leon is better.'_

A silence, as the other man stared down at him, and then he broke into a lopsided grin and reached down, sweeping him up into his arms and lifting him into the air. He held him tightly to his chest, and for the first time, he felt himself smiling.

He reached up and threw his arms around the man's neck, burying his face in his shirt.

_'Ludwig! He's Ludwig! Do you like that name?'_

He nodded, pulling back enough to meet those wine-colored eyes that he already liked, and he smiled.

_'Then Ludwig it is! It's great to meet'cha Ludwig!'_

He opened his mouth, and his voice was scratchy and thin as he asked, earnestly, 'Are you my big brother?'

_'How d'you know?'_

After that, Gilbert refused to put him down.

For the next ten years.

Gilbert did everything for him. Everything.

_I'd do anything for you._

Gilbert was always with him. Gilbert held him close to his chest at night and told him stories until he fell asleep. Gilbert helped him with his homework. Gilbert made him breakfast in the morning. Gilbert chastised him when he did something wrong, but afterwards he always ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head.

He loved every minute of it.

He loved Gilbert.

_I'll always be here for you._

Gilbert was proud and strong and brave and always so funny, and he never liked to leave him alone for too long when he was little, even once he was a little older and could take care of himself.

Some part of him was glad, because even though he was grown...

Even when he moved out...

And even when the border closed and they were cut off...

_We'll be together forever._

Gilbert would always be his big brother. Always. Gilbert had done his best.

He'd tried. Most of the time.

But love wasn't supposed to diminish for mistakes one made, and he loved Gilbert as much when he was hugging him as he did when Gilbert was screaming at him in the heat of an argument.

He would always love Gilbert.

Always.

Even though sometimes...

Sometimes, he wished that Gilbert would have been a little more responsible. He wished that Gilbert would have acted his age.

Gilbert was just Gilbert. That was just how he was. Just Gilbert. He couldn't help it, maybe.

_Forever_ hadn't lasted as long as he had expected.

His head hurt.

Together.

_You're Ludwig._

Someone was beside of him.

Their breath shifted his eyelashes.

_Don't be sad, Ludwig. It won't be forever. Look, I even thought of a great nickname for you! West! See, and...and I can be East, and even though we're split up, we're still together..._

The air was cooler and much thinner suddenly, and he felt the fog of sleep heavy on his mind.

Warm sheets.

Were they together?

Gilbert.

There was someone asleep next to him, that much was certain; he could hear their deep, heavy breathing. When did he wind up in this bed? He did not remember getting here. The voices in his head were muddled and disjointed.

He was so tired.

West.

Ha. He had not thought of that ridiculous nickname for years. Gilbert had only ever used it once or twice. They had stopped talking there for a while, when Gilbert had thrown one of his fits, and Ludwig had forgotten about it over time.

How strange. Thinking of it now.

Someone shifted beside of him, and there was a sudden hand thrown over his neck. It fell until it came to rest on his cheek, warm and heavy. He sighed into his pillow, resting on his side as he fought with the urge to fall right back asleep.

Everything was comforting.

That dreamy feeling of waking up on a cool night in a warm bed, with an equally warm body next to you.

He missed that feeling.

The hand upon his cheek was welcome; rough and large.

Gilbert's hands were rough.

Gilbert was the East and he was the West.

There was the smell of clean linen and in the distance, roses. The aroma of laundered clothes, and when he exhaled he could smell faint traces of alcohol.

That was, no doubt, the source of his amnesia of this bed.

Drunk. He hadn't been drunk in a long time. Everything was fuzzy. The warmth was overwhelming, and he was on the brink of going back to sleep.

He started to drift.

And then there was a whiff of gunpowder, and he wrinkled his nose.

Gunpowder? Where had that come from?

Gilbert could barely even hold a gun without getting a look of anxiousness in his eyes. Alfred had put a gun in his hands once, hadn't he, and Gilbert had quickly dropped it with a nervous laugh and slippery fingers, and Alfred had smiled as he had knelt down and picked it up...

Alfred?

No, that couldn't be right. Alfred hadn't come along until later. Gilbert and Alfred hadn't ever met face to face.

Later...

_I'll find you._

He frowned, and with a very slow lurch, like a vehicle stuck in mud, his brain was coming back into consciousness. The hand was warm on his face, and he reached up, tracing it with his fingers as the lightheadedness began to slowly recede.

_East of the Sun and West of the Moon._

And then he opened his eyes.

Dark.

Absolute dark. Then his vision began to clear as his eyes adjusted, and he could make out shapes. There was another bed down a short distance; the lump under the covers indicating someone sleeping there. On the other side of the room a window was covered with curtains; the moonlight that streamed through was faint crimson as it bled through the velvet draperies. A heater was on an end table, and the curtains fluttered with its airflow.

The shadows that played across the room were swift and fleeting and created strange shapes on the walls that writhed in and out of focus.

A calm, cool, beautiful night.

He glanced at the hand that he was covering with his own, but its owner was the only part of this scene that was not was not living up to his expectations.

Ivan.

Fully clothed and pale hair shining white in the moonlight, he lied there on top of the covers, booted feet hanging off the edge of the bed, his hand on Ludwig's face, and he was so close that Ludwig could see his eyes twitching behind his closed lids in the deepest state of REM sleep, eyelashes gleaming as white as his hair.

His breathing was deep and steady, and Ludwig wondered, absurdly, what Ivan dreamed about. What scenes played out in Ivan's head in the depths of sleep.

Gunpowder.

A pretty dress.

Red.

The comfort of the past was shattered as he came crashing back down to earth with a sickening jolt, and he remembered through a dark veil the travesties of the previous night with a terrible, numbing shame.

Oh, God. What had he done?

He should _never_ have been so foolish as to drink enough (in Ivan's presence, of all people) to lower his defenses so. Even one shot of vodka around a wolf like Ivan was a foolish hazard that someone as careful as he was should never have risked. But to push all reason aside and let himelf get _drunk_?

Inexcusable.

A major lapse in judgment on his part. To have drank enough to loose his cool and his wits. To lose his temper. To lose his _mind_. To let Ivan confuse him.

He was ashamed that he had ever let such things occur.

That he had ever let Ivan lead him in a dance, or kiss him in the dark. That he had ever let Ivan get into his head. That he had ever let Ivan _kill_.

But how could he have known what he was dealing with? Maybe he was in over his head. In moments of vulnerability, Ivan was the most dangerous thing on the planet.

And, oh God, it was selfish and cruelly insensitive, but now he only felt a great relief; because even though Ivan had put a bullet right in that woman's chest, _he _was, at least, safe from Ivan's clutches, even though Ivan had led him up to this room by his hand. Christ almighty, if he had awoken naked in this bed, with a naked Ivan beside of him, oh God, he would have taken a flying leap through that window if only to preserve some sense of honor in death.

Anyway, the woman was dead. He was _not_.

Now what?

He tried to gather a sense of his surroundings.

His head was burning like a fire. The first stirrings of nausea came up, the results of his hangover, but he pushed it aside.

Focus.

Ivan was passed out, so drunk that he had not even had the time to remove his boots. A good sign. At least _he _had not let himself go _that _far, and maybe he did not remember coming into this room or lying down on this bed, but he remembered all that mattered.

He remembered being _so_ close to a horrible downfall, tottering dangerously on the edge of Ivan's clever cliff. He remembered the metallic smell of blood, the sharpness of gunpowder. The despair. The thrill.

The awe. That frightened him more than anything else. Because he had glimpsed, perhaps not fully and certainly blearily, how _dangerous _Ivan was. Not because he had held a gun and had murdered.

Anyone could _murder_.

There was something else about Ivan that made him so dangerous, something that was very real even if he could not quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was his manner. His personality. Ivan was soft-spoken and wily and absolutely calm, certain and self-confident and sure, meticulous and bold and fearless.

Unshakeable. Unreadable. Unpredictable.

Infallible.

That serene, razor intelligence was more terrifying than any kind of cruel, brash explosion could ever be. Even if Ivan looked like hardly more than an overgrown teddy bear while he was asleep.

Ludwig could only lie there, frozen in place, reluctant to move lest he awake then sleeping dragon.

Looking around as best he could, he tried to figure out what the hell came next. What did he do? Did he just go back to sleep and let fate lead him? Fate had saved him once, hadn't it, when it had led him to bump into Roderich on the streets. Maybe there would be such salvation in the future.

Or...

Did he try to run? Make his own fate? His own destiny?

He remembered Ivan's aggressive hands, heat and danger in the dark, and shuddered.

Ivan could create and shape fate too. Ivan could control destiny.

He had been so tired last night. He had just wanted everything to end. He had wanted to stop caring.

How could he? How could he give up? That wasn't who he was. It would be so easy, just to sit back and let Ivan lead him.

In doing so, he would betray those who had loved him.

Even if they had forgotten him by now, he had not forgotten _them_, and all he could do, to make up for their years of love, was to at least care enough to try and get himself out of the prison he had found himself in.

He had to run. He had to. They had taught him better.

If he could have seen Ludwig the night before, ready to quit, Roderich would have shaken his head, and muttered, 'When the hell did you decide you wanted to become a damn martyr? I thought you knew better.'

He did. He was ready now. Time to go.

Now was an ideal time. Ivan was passed out drunk and Toris was right there. Right across the room.

But how? If he could only—

A gleam in the moonlight caught his eye, and his heart raced.

Keys.

On the dresser, next to the vase of flowers, lay the keys to the car. His breath stopped, and tried to read his luck. If Ivan was a heavy sleeper...

With gentle fingers, he took Ivan's big hand up within his own and lowered it down, slowly, slowly...

It touched the sheet, and he withdrew his hand.

Ivan did not stir.

Relief flooded his chest, and it was with determination that he edged himself as quietly as he could to the end of the bed, and he touched his socked feet down on the carpet without the softest of noises. Kneeling down, he groped in the dark until he found his boots. He pulled them on, and then he looked for his coat. But it was lying on the edge of the bed, and Ivan's leg was over it, and he did not dare try to pull it out.

He couldn't risk it.

Forgoing it, he crept around the bed, and took up the keys stealthily from the end table. His heart was hammering so loudly that he was afraid Ivan would hear it and wake up.

The keys jingled in his hand, and he froze up in terror, watching Ivan with wide-eyed horror.

He could have died. He couldn't breathe.

Ivan did not move.

And for a moment, he stood there in between the beds, keys tucked into his shirt pocket, and oh God...

He wanted to just turn on his heel and run. He could just run now. He did not have to risk waking Toris. He could just leave him. No one would ever know. Maybe he could live with that shame.

He took a step backwards, and he was on the verge of fleeing, and leaving Toris alone, like Toris had left him.

But...

God.

He couldn't. He just couldn't.

Gathering his nerve, and knowing that this could be the end of the whole thing, he crept over to Toris' bed, and rested himself on the edge. If Toris made a noise, they were both done for. But he had to save Toris, because the guilt would eat him alive if he didn't, and he was so guilty already.

Guilt.

The horrible, shameful guilt that he had, in a fit of irrationality and idiocy and complete selfishness, had the nerve to try to place all of the blame of his position on Gilbert.

Oh, Gilbert. Dumb Gilbert.

He had never been more ashamed of himself.

It had been so easy, with Ivan's smooth voice whispering in his ear, to take out aggression on his brother, but Gilbert had not asked him to crawl through that tunnel. Gilbert had not asked him to sneak into the heart of a _Stasi_ building. Gilbert had not asked him to foolishly confront a Soviet general. And Gilbert had not asked him to take his place.

_Ludwig! Don't! Go home!_

No.

Gilbert had wanted to save him! It was partly Gilbert's fault, of course it was.

Mostly.

But it was his fault, too.

If Gilbert had forgotten him, then so what? He had made all of his decisions on his own. No one had forced him. Least of all Gilbert.

He had let Ivan twist everything. The least _he _could do to regain a sense of honor was to save Toris, as Gilbert had wanted to save him. He sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his eyes firmly on Ivan to check for stirring, and then he pulled down the cover and grabbed Toris' shoulder.

"Toris."

He shook him.

Toris inhaled deeply, and then opened bleary eyes, and when he saw Ludwig leaning over him he sat up straight with a gasp. With a wave of horror, Ludwig thrust his palm against Toris' mouth, and immediately, Toris' eyes snapped over towards Ivan, and for a horrible moment they sat there, Ludwig's hand covering Toris' mouth and nose, all but suffocating him, and they both watched as Ivan shifted his weight.

They waited. Neither of them breathed.

Then Ivan fell still, without incident, and Ludwig removed his hand and tried to tug Toris upright.

"Come on," he whispered, mouthing the words more than he spoke them, but Toris was still staring at Ivan, and his chest was absolutely still, as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Ludwig clenched his fingers in Toris' shirt, and tried to pull him up again.

"Toris, come on. Just be quiet. He won't hear us. He's passed out."

Then, finally, Toris looked up at him, and the excruciating look in his eyes was visible, even in the dark.

Maybe fear. Maybe horror. Maybe some kind of _sadness_.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and then he saw the gleam of the keys in Ludwig's breast pocket. He started to breathe again, and Ludwig met his eyes.

"Come on! Get up! We're leaving."

Toris did not move.

He glanced over at Ivan, feeling the apprehension weighing heavily in his chest. They had to go.

Now. Before Ivan woke up.

"Get up!"

Nothing. Toris sat still.

He was getting nervous. Ivan shifted again. This game was not funny.

"_Toris_!" he hissed, and reached out, grabbing up Toris' collar and giving him a firm shake, thinking, perhaps, that rattling his brain around would set him straight, "Come on! Don't be _stupid_, Toris! We have to go! _Now_! Get up!"

And Toris, God help him, only stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, as though he was afraid of even _thinking _about getting up.

Ludwig's patience was waning, and he was frightened too.

"Toris, get up."

Toris looked at the closed door, then over at the sleeping Ivan, and then, as though he were on the verge of bursting into tears, he only bowed his head, and moaned, quietly, "I can't."

"What?" he hissed, in disbelief, and he shook Toris again, a strangling frustration overtaking him. "Goddammit, Toris, stop fuckin' around and get the fuck up! Get _up_! We have to go! I have to get us out of here!"

Toris only shook his head, and his hands were trembling beside him. On the very edge of sanity, his patience gone, Ludwig pulled back his hand and slapped Toris across the face as smartly as he dared.

"_Get up_!"

Only a wide-eyed look of terror, silent hopelessness, and Ludwig's anger fell into despair.

Toris just wouldn't move. Like a deer caught in a bright light.

...in Ivan's light.

Shaking his head, feeling horrified, his hands gripping Toris' shoulders, he looked straight into Toris' eyes, and moaned, miserably, "I've gotta go. I've gotta go. Oh, _God_, Toris, I have to go! I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I have to go!"

One final meeting of eyes, and then he pulled back and crept to the door, and oh, God, how he _hated _himself as he snuck out, leaving Toris behind, alone and scared, but he could not waste any more time. He couldn't. If Toris did not want to come, then what could he do?

He wanted to burst into tears. He couldn't help. He shut the door behind him without a sound, and he was _so _ashamed. What could he do? Toris was beyond help.

What could he do?

Toris could not be saved. He hated himself all the same.

Toris, Toris, poor Toris.

He took a deep breath, pushed down the nausea, blinked the mist from his eyes, and backed quietly to the door.

Then he ran.

_Please forgive me._

The hallway twisted. He remembered two great staircases that sat opposite each other back in the entrance hall.

If he could get back down there...

He could find the door.

He ran as quickly as he dared, while keeping a mind of his stealth. The hallway was long. Much longer than he had anticipated.

This damn place.

He passed door after door after door, 501, 503, 505, 507, and then the hall twisted again, and came to a dead end. He halted in his tracks, and, feeling the sickening adrenaline in his veins, he whipped around and went back the way he came.

Shit.

He must have missed a stairwell or an elevator door. But all of the signs were in Russian, and it was with a helpless frustration that he realized he had another problem in the letters. He could not even read them, and what if he thought it was really a stairwell and he opened it and it was a fire escape and an alarm came on?

Oh, God, he could not even fathom the thought.

But he knew one thing :

If Ivan woke up and came running after him, he would run, too.

Straight towards a window. He'd keep himself, and his dignity.

Backtracking.

He walked the entire length of the hall again, and when he passed the room where Ivan slept, he slowed to a crawl and crept by without a sound. _Christ_, what if Ivan had already awoken and had slipped down the staircase and was _waiting _for him?

He shuddered. One of the scariest moments of his life. Creeping through empty hotel hallways. The hairs on his neck stood up. An eternity of fear and doors, and when he reached the other corner after long minutes, he heaved a sigh of relief.

Stairs.

He went down them as quietly as possible, looking over his shoulder every few seconds in fear, and as he went down flight after flight, he realized how high up he had been, at least five stories, and when finally there were no more stairs, he was back in the hall.

It seemed long, dark, and dangerous. Like something from a horror movie. The door that led outside stood before him, at the end of the hall.

He crept towards it, passing by doors and _fearing_, every second, that he would get caught.

He reached the door.

He reached out his hand, and froze for a moment. What if it had an alarm? Could he take such a risk? He did not have a choice.

Deep breath.

Steady.

He could do this. Chest flooded with dread, he brought up his trembling hand and grabbed the doorknob. He twisted it. He could feel a bead of sweat running down his neck.

Come on.

Go.

He pushed the door open.

...and there was nothing.

Oh, thank God. Thank God.

Slinking out and shutting the door behind him without a sound, he looked around for a dumb moment, frozen in place by the merciless cold. Colder than he had ever known. Even colder than the ride here had been.

He couldn't move, stunned into place.

Oh, shit. He had left his coat under Ivan, like a fool. Well, it was too late now.

If he froze to death, maybe it would be a blessing.

Carry on. He dragged himself out of his stupor, and took a step. It was dark, and the great courtyard stood before him, the sparse trees hanging low with snow. There was no sound; only quiet.

Silence.

The snow and cars glistened with the light of the moon, and the air stung his lungs. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he stepped down the short staircase, and then there was icy pavement below. He walked as quickly as he could without slipping, reaching into his pocket and taking out the keys.

He reached the edge of the circular parking lot, and stood still.

Dammit. There was _so _many cars. All black. Did they really have to look exactly alike? Really?

Oh, God, how could he possibly know which one was Ivan's? He'd have to guess. Best to go in order.

He started at the left row, at the beginning of the half-circle of cars, and stabbed the key at the lock.

It did not turn. He passed to the next.

No.

Another. Not this one.

Snow drifted from the branches of a tree as he tried another, and he looked up; just an owl, staring down at him with golden eyes, almost accusatively, as though it _knew _what he was doing. He would have laughed to himself had he not felt so sick, as he stared back at it, and maybe it was just one of Ivan's spies.

The key did not turn, and he passed on to the next.

The owl began to hoot.

Minutes passed; the cars were endless. He kept trying.

Hoot.

He thought he heard, over the silence, a click in the distance.

He was halfway through the circle.

Hoot.

And every time he moved, he could _swear _that someone was watching him. He could feel it, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up with fright, but when he looked this way and that, there was no one. Maybe just his mind playing tricks on him.

He carried on. It was slow going, with his numb feet and trembling fingers. He could barely function. So cold.

Half an hour, at least.

And then finally, mercifully, he dug the key into a door, and it turned.

He moaned in relief and pulled open the door and leapt inside without a second glance, his fingers and nose numb and shaking so hard from the biting cold that he could barely fumble the key into the ignition.

Finally it slid in. He took a breath to steady himself.

He turned the key.

There was nothing.

He tried again.

Nothing.

He turned it again, and now a cold sweat broke out onto his brow, and the air around him was so cold that the moisture quickly froze there in the roots of his bangs. But that was the least of his concerns. He turned the key again. And again.

Only a sputter.

"Oh, _start_, you piece of shit! Start! _Start_!"

Desperate and terrified, he banged his fists down on the dashboard, as hard as he could, and now the tears of frustration were threatening to fall, stinging his eyes and momentarily blinding him.

"Start!"

He turned it again. Oh, why wouldn't it start? His heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid he would pass out.

He turned it again.

Oh, Jesus Christ almighty, it wouldn't start, it was frozen, and he would sit here until he was frozen too or Ivan finally woke up and came down and found him—

"Oh, _God_, please! Please! _PLEASE_!"

A final, desperate twist of the key, and the engine finally roared to life.

The lights came on. The radio crackled with static.

"Yes!"

Triumphant and suppressing a squeal of glee, he banged his fists on the dashboard one final time, turned the radio off as an eerie tune began to play out (violins and a deep male voice in Russian and that constant white noise in the background), and fell backward into the seat. Watching his breath linger in the air, he gave in to his relief and leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, calming his heart. He did not dare drive away straight off; he would only shoot the frozen engine to hell, and then he would be in an even worse spot. At least the gas tank was full; Toris had been smart enough for that.

He reached out and fumbled with the knob of the heat, and flipped it on high.

And he waited.

The dizzying adrenaline slowed into a warm throb, and he sighed, shivering as he wrapped his arms around himself and spaced out, waiting for the engine to warm.

It had been too close. Too close. Far too close.

_Sorry, Toris. Sorry, sorry. Hang tight._

Hang tight? For what? No one was coming to save Toris. No one was coming to save _him_, either, and that's why he had to do it himself. The mixture of hot fear and freezing air was making him sleepy.

Lethargically, he tilted his head to the side, gazing up at the sky as he passed in and out of consciousness.

It was hard to stay alert. Especially with such cold air.

He was afraid to fall asleep, but the Sandman was persistent.

He drifted.

The sky was crystal clear. Not a cloud in sight. The stars were absolutely countless, bright and lucid and shimmering. The ground was covered in glistening, glittering snow. The moon was high; crescent.

His breath fogged the glass.

Only the moon. No sun. If East was the Sun, and West was the Moon, then he was alone here, because there was no sun in this land. No room for Gilbert for all the perpetual clouds.

It didn't matter. Gilbert was far away.

Gone.

Everything was absolutely still, not even the slightest of breezes, and he heard only his own heart, the purr of the motor, and the sound of his breathing. The smell of warm, musty leather.

Blearily, he smiled to no one, and breathed to himself, "Oh, God. Oh, God. You son of a bitch. You're so smart, aren't you? But so am I..."

His breath puffed gently in the air and stayed there for a interestingly long time.

The heater was so slow to warm...

His eyes fluttered closed, and he heard voices of the past.

_Aim._

When had Gilbert dropped the gun? He had only been fifteen or so, so it could not have been Alfred who had handed it to him. Why couldn't he think straight?

No, wait, it had been Erzsébet, hadn't it? Gilbert had put a gun her hands as a joke, and she had dropped in it surprise, giggling apprehensively, and Gilbert had rolled his eyes as he had picked it up off the floor.

...was that right?

_Fire._

Minutes passed in absolute peacefulness, and he struggled in and out of sleep as the freezing air dragged him down. He longed to just give in and _sleep_, and dream. He preferred dreams to reality nowadays, and God, if he could just hear Gilbert's voice one more time.

To hear encouragement. To hear Gilbert urging him on, like he always had before.

_Ludwig, good marks again? I'm proud! You're a smart little bastard, just like your brother._

Just once more.

_You're so smart, but..._

Once more.

_But..._

Even for a second.

"Not as smart as me."

His heart stopped when the warm, sly whisper drifted into his ear, his hands trembled, and it was with wide eyes of horror that he slowly, very, very slowly, so _slowly_, looked over to his left.

And then everything froze up, time as completely still and icy as the world outside.

Even his breath stopped, the last visible vapors lingering in the air.

Silence.

He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

No air.

Because Ivan was sitting in the back, pale eyes glowing silver in the moonlight, leaning forward so that his elbow was rested on the edge of the seat, and his legs were spread in casual disinterest as he smiled at Ludwig, so close that their noses nearly touched.

Oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, how had he not _seen _him? How had he not _seen him_? Oh, God, he had been _so _fucking _stupid _to jump in so blindly without even _looking_, oh God, and he had been lost in the hallway and then in the courtyard so long that of _course _Ivan would have had time to get down there before him and sneak in the car and lie low until he was completely off guard...

_Shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._

But how had he known? How had he _known_?

He was trembling so terribly that he could not even try to reach out and open the door and run, and when he finally realized, when it finally hit him, his tremble became that of anger, and his hands clenched.

Toris.

Toris had woken Ivan. Toris had _told _him.

Betrayed and hurt and unfathomably furious, he could only smile breathlessly when Ivan reached out and ran a warm hand down his cheek, and he was shaking from more than cold.

_Toris_. That little _bastard_. That hopeless, miserable little _bastard_. That motherfucker. That goddamn back-stabbing son of a bitch. When he saw him again, he would do Toris a favor and _kill_ him and put him out of his goddamn misery.

"Where are you going?" Ivan asked, voice low and calm and husky from sleep, and when Ludwig only stared at him blankly, he leaned in closer, pressing their noses together, lips barely ghosting his own. "Where are you going?" he asked again, hand stroking his cheek absently, and Ludwig finally found his voice.

He nearly giggled in a fit of madness.

"Anywhere you're not," he whispered, still smiling, and after a second of silence, Ivan pulled back, observing him with a tilted head.

"Ah."

For a moment, Ludwig could see a flash of disappointment running through Ivan's pale eyes, and he was almost reminded of a child that had been given a wonderful present, only to have it snatched away before he could open it because it had been given to him by mistake.

"A shame," Ivan muttered, withdrawing his hand from his cheek, balling it into a fist and leaning his chin atop. "You know, I thought we were beginning to understand each other. So, then, you're running from me. That hurts my feelings, Ludwig."

Feelings? What feelings?

Ha.

Ludwig reached out and gripped the steering wheel to hide the shaking of his hands, and it was with a defiant eye that he lifted his brow and said, voice thin with suppressed rage, "Fuck you. Fuck you!"

Another silence, and then Ivan leaned back fully into the seat, resting his hands on his knees, and it was with a scoff and a shake of his head that he reached into his pocket. "Yeah," he muttered darkly, as he dug around for something, "We'll get around to that eventually."

Then, over the crushing silence and thick atmosphere, there was a single crisp click.

Ludwig did not need to second guess what it was, blood turning to ice, and then Ivan scoffed.

"You want to go so badly?"

He leaned forward, and something cool and hard pressed into the back of his neck.

How was it that with Ivan...

"Drive."

...he always seemed to come out second best?

Stifling his nausea, he changed the gear, lifted his foot from the brake, and the car lurched forward.

The snow crunched under the tires.

The courtyard went by far too quickly, and then there was the beginning of the road, and Ivan was suddenly whispering in his ear, "Slowly. Very slowly. If you crash my car, I will be very upset. I like this car."

"You _would_," he threw back under his breath, and Ivan just snorted.

The tires crept along over the sheet of ice, and Ludwig could barely keep a grip on the steering wheel for the shivering of his hands, and someone, should they have been passing, could have simply walked by the car faster than it could drive.

Slower than slow, and Ivan's breath was warm on his neck.

"Keep going."

Where were they going? Was this the part where Ivan drove him out into the middle of nowhere and shot him, like he had thought he would back at the Czechoslovakian border? The gun pressing into him was a good indication.

"I'm curious, Ludwig," Ivan suddenly whispered, "Where did you think you would go? Did you really think you could just drive back to Berlin? Did you think you could drive out of Siberia? It would take you weeks. A month! You'd be dead by then."

It had been foolhardy, yes. Stupid, even.

But...

"I had to try," he grumbled, and Ivan laughed.

"Well! Are you satisfied then, now? You tried. But," he leaned in, pressing his cheek into Ludwig's with narrowed eyes of victory, "I win again."

Again.

He gripped the steering wheel and bit his tongue.

"I always win, Ludwig. Always. I will never stand to lose to anyone. Even if I have to cheat. But hey!" He leaned in, and placed a swift kiss on the side of Ludwig's head, "That's between us, yeah?"

Arrogant. Prideful. Self-confident and always so sure.

Gilbert used to rig the rules of board games so that he would not lose to Roderich. Gilbert would use his hands to keep Ludwig from scoring a goal when they played a friendly game of football.

"You know," he began, voice deep and barely a whisper, "maybe you should have kept my brother. You and him could have spent all day making up your own rules."

Gilbert never lost. Ivan always won.

A silence, and then Ivan drawled, "Nah. You are much less annoying. Despite this."

The trees passed by. The town lights were behind them. The snow glittered in the lights of the vehicle. He could barely feel his fingers.

He was shivering.

The silence was overwhelming. The gun in the back of his neck was uncomfortable.

How did he find himself in these situations?

"Now, you tell me," Ludwig finally said, to break the suffocating silence, "Tell me. Why does Toris do everything you say? Why won't he leave? What have you done to make him so dependant on you?"

He almost didn't want to know, and he was not sure why he asked.

Maybe to get a glimpse of what was in store for _him_. Maybe just to know whether he really should kill Toris or not.

A short silence.

Ivan gave a deep, "Mm," and then said, "Toris is so moody, isn't he? He acts tough, but he's not. All I have to do is slam a door, and he can't even move. Have you ever really heard the slam of a door, Ludwig? Not knowing when it's going to open again? It could be hours. It could be days. Or maybe never. It's interesting, to see how long someone can last in a locked room before they go crazy." He pressed his lips into Ludwig's hair and added, "Toris only lasted four days. The first time. The second was two. Then one. Now he can't even stand to be alone. He's probably panicking in the hotel room right now. Pitiful, isn't he? When we get back home, maybe I'll try you out. I bet you'll last a lot longer."

Was that it? A locked room seemed much less brutal than he had been expecting, not the torture he had been dreading, and almost felt relief.

"Have at it," he said, and Ivan's little leer was grating him.

"So confident! I like that. You and I will have good times together! I like you, Ludwig. I do. I was not expecting that."

"I try."

Ivan laughed.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes and looked ahead at the white road, and said nothing more.

They drove. The lights in the distance were almost gone. They had gone perhaps two or three miles, at a slow crawl, before Ivan finally sat back and said, "Stop here."

He slid to a halt, and the gun pressed harder into his neck.

"Get out."

Get _out_?

Was this the end of the line?

He did, and oh, God, as soon as he opened the door and stepped into the night air, his skin froze, and he tucked his hands under his armpits. Ivan got out too, gun held steady, and then he took his ushanka off and tossed it forward. Ludwig barely caught it, hands trembling, and then Ivan sat down in the driver's seat, and Ludwig realized with a dawning horror what was going to happen :

Ivan was going to _leave _him here.

In the cold.

Resting his elbow on his knee and holding his head up with his palm, Ivan watched him, as he pulled the ushanka down over his ears and struggled to tie it, and then smiled.

"Well," he said, and inclined his head towards the wilderness, "Here's your chance! You want to go? So go! It's one hundred and fifty miles back to Mirny. Or, like you had planned, seven _thousand _miles back to Berlin. Better start walking. Maybe you'd even make it until sunrise before you froze to death."

Ludwig bit his lip to keep his scream of frustration at bay, and Ivan's smile fell into a sneer of what could very well have been annoyance. As thought, perhaps, he should not have had to get out of his warm bed in the middle of the night just to deal with such frivolous things.

"Or," he continued, "It's just a few miles back _there_." He pointed at the dull, glowing lights behind them. "If you can walk even that. Don't be a fool, Ludwig. Germans came out into the Russian snows once. It did not end well. You're not a fool. You'll make it. I know you will." He reached out and grabbed the handle of the door. "I'll be waiting for you. Hurry."

With that, he shut the door, and Ludwig could only stand there, completely numb, and watch as Ivan turned the car around, and the vehicle glided over the ice back towards the town, and Ludwig was alone.

Alone. Out in the snow.

In the cold.

For a moment he stood completely still, in absolute horror and disbelief, and then the rage rose up within him like a volcano and he kicked the snow in Ivan's direction, screeching to no one, "_Goddammit_! Goddammit! You son of a bitch! Fuck! _Fuck_! I'll _kill _you when I get a chance! Do you fuckin' hear me? Oh, God! _God_! _Goddammit_! I _hate_ you _so_ fuckin' _much_!"

He whirled around, punching the trunk of the hapless tree that just happened to be the closest. The bark scraped his skin, and he watched in horror as the blood that crept to the surface froze before it could even drip.

His anger faded into something that felt like hopelessness, and from there into complete despair.

What did he do? What the fuck did he do now? Die out here in the snow? Try to walk back? He did not want to go back to town. What choice did he have? He could not stay here.

Death was a certainty.

And death was one of those things that was much easier to talk about than to actually do.

It was easy to say to himself, 'I'd rather die!', but when death was suddenly a very real possibility?

The survival instinct kicked in. Now, he wanted to live.

Goddammit.

Cursing to himself and wishing that he had never awoken stupid Toris in the first place, he dragged his feet out of the snow and began to walk.

It was like walking through knee-high sand. Slow, hard, and exhausting. The ice clung to his boots like dumbbells.

His lungs hurt.

Gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering, he lunged forward through the snow, trying to step back into the road for easier trekking.

But when he slipped and fell, and then again, and again, he realized that he was simply trembling too much to balance himself on the sheet of ice. With a low brow, he slid back down into the snow, with only the distant glow of the lights as a guide.

The forest beyond was pitch black and completely still. He dreaded even looking into it, so dark and imposing it stood.

Alone. Vulnerable. Helpless.

He walked, and walked, and with every step he took his legs were becoming less and less steady. His pace was slowing into a lurching stagger, and the snow was falling down into his boots. It melted, and the freezing water around his feet stung like needles. His chest ached and his lungs were burning, but he did not stop, even when his eyelids began to stick together every time he blinked.

He couldn't stop.

A minute's delay would be disastrous.

The yards passed.

It wasn't that far. It was only a couple of miles.

God, it was so cold. Hell, made of ice instead of fire.

He walked.

The idiotic run through the forest in Brno may as well have been a pretty summer day in comparison.

And walked.

Minutes dragged. His pace continued to slow. At one point he stopped, trying to catch his breath.

He only stopped for a few minutes.

When he tried to walk again, his boots were stuck in the ice. It took every ounce of strength and determination in his body, every shred of it, to reach down, grab his knees, and physically yank his boots up from their icy death-trap.

That was a mistake that he would _not_ make again. No more stops. He tried to carry on, as best he could.

Every step felt like it took a year.

His hair was frozen to his scalp, even underneath the ushanka. His shirt was freezing to his skin.

He looked down. The snow was endless. He couldn't feel his feet. He was walking on nothing. He couldn't feel where he was placing his feet, and had to watch the ground to make sure his feet were falling flat.

His pace had turned into a crawl.

Everything _ached_, but maybe the sluggishness of his body was not what should have concerned him.

His feet were numb. Didn't most of the body's heat leave through the feet? The feet and the head. His feet were wet and frozen. That was _not_ good. Because with every step, every foot, every inch, every second, his thoughts were swimming further and further away, and his mind was slipping, and a word kept running through his head :

Hypothermia.

He was becoming hypothermic.

His blood was literally turning to ice within him.

His balance faded. His vision started going next. And then his alertness.

He felt sleepy. Lethargic.

Everything was blurry.

He tried to shake his head to clear it, but it was no use. His mind filled with fog.

The lights guiding him were blurry.

Faint.

The lights were closer, but still so far.

So far.

...where was Toris?

He had left him again.

Again.

A dull throb in his head, and the cold was slowly becoming less unbearable.

He kept walking.

How long had it been now?

An hour? Two?

Ten?

A whole day?

He had no sense of time.

Just cold.

The snow was deep and endless. Colorful dots danced before his eyes.

A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. Speaking to the moon.

And suddenly, as he looked over his shoulder, and then back at the lights, he realized that he did not remember why he walking out here.

The fuck was he was _doing_ out here?

Certainly, this was a very poor lapse in his judgment, to take a walk in such weather, alone. Why would he do such a thing?

The trees here were dark.

Endless.

Stars up above.

He looked up, in a moment of dazed dreaminess, and tried to pick out familiar constellations.

He couldn't seem to focus long enough to find any.

Huh. Oh well.

Furrowing his brow, he picked up his wobbly foot, and took a step forward, and then stopped, reaching up and scratching irritably at the ushanka.

It was starting to bother him.

Too hot.

It wasn't that cold. He probably didn't need it.

His fingers were clumsy and very stiff, but still he managed to untie the flaps, as he began to stumble forward again, and it was with relief that he yanked the fur hat off of his head and tossed it down onto the road.

That was better. It was almost too warm.

He felt better.

He carried on, and then he could see the outline of a town in the distance. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had he been here before? Who could say? He knew that he should go there, because Ivan had said so, but as to how he had wound up out here in the first place...

Where _was_ Ivan, anyway?

And Toris.

Had they forgotten him? Left him behind?

He couldn't think.

The forest thinned.

There were buildings suddenly, small houses in rows, cobbled streets of ice, pretty cottages, and he staggered up to the nearest one, stumbling for his numb feet, and brought his fist down on the door. There was no sound from within, and he tried again.

Nothing.

He passed on to the next, and now he could feel a stir of anxiety within him, because he was certain that something awful was chasing him, even if he couldn't put a name to it, and a great fear lingered over him.

No one answered.

Where was everyone? Maybe he had stumbled into a ghost town.

He moved on to the next house, and this time he collapsed against the door as he knocked, as a horrible wave of lightheadedness overtook him, and maybe the town was empty because Ivan had killed everyone.

Gunpowder.

He knocked again.

His eyes closed.

Ivan was everywhere.

He just wanted to go to sleep.

No matter where he went.

He was tired.

Ivan's hands were rough and warm.

He was cold again, suddenly.

Ivan's hands were always warm.

He knocked again, as the shiver returned. He thought he would faint.

And the door finally opened.

A sudden warm light cast out on the snow, bathing him in its glow, and a beautiful woman stood in the frame, her golden hair shining yellow in the firelight.

There was a silence as they stared at each other. He was shivering so terribly that he could barely even stand, and then she took a step back, and held open the door.

He staggered inside, and made it only onto carpet before he collapsed on the floor before the fireplace, holding his arms around himself and digging his boots into the rug.

Thank God, thank God.

Burying his face into the rug, he could not even speak as she shut the door and then came over next to him, kneeling down and whispering, "_Kto vi_?"

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment she was silent.

He could not stop shivering. His hair was frozen to his head.

"_Vi poteryani_?"

Maybe he was dying. He couldn't feel anything. Not even his lungs when he breathed.

Nothing.

She raised her hand up and placed it upon his frozen hair.

Finally, he managed to raise his head, and met her eyes, a pretty dark blue, and smiled. Even though he didn't know if she could understand him, he said, voice slow and unsteady for the mist in his mind, "Hey! Thanks for letting me in. I think someone was chasing me!"

He dropped his head back down and giggled, and she fell down onto both knees, and now her eyes were stern as she said in fluent, if not very heavily accented, German, "Are you drunk? Did you go out and get lost or something? I thought you GDR type were supposed to be the smartest."

GDR?

...oh, _right_! Right.

Suppressing another giggle, he said, awkwardly, "Oh, yeah! That's right, I'm," he snickered, "I'm Colonel Müller!"

His voice felt strange; thin and scratchy.

She stared at him with a low brow.

He burst into helpless laughter, and she only shook her head and reached down, removing his boots as he burrowed his freezing nose in the carpet and tried to compose himself.

The giddiness that flowed through his veins would have, perhaps, alarmed a doctor.

His wet boots gone, she grabbed his ankles and dragged his legs towards the fireplace, placing them down as closely as possible. She was hovering over him again, and he could not help but notice how pretty she was, as she muttered, "You kept your hands under your arms at least." Her eyes drifted down to his feet, and she smiled, almost luridly. "You might lose your toes, though, _colonel_."

He barely heard her, and wrapped his arms over his chest, and as the ice in his hair began to melt, he could not help but think, absurdly, that Ivan would be angry that he had lost his hat.

Her hair tickled his face as she leaned down, and asked, "What were you doing out there?"

"I...don't remember."

He didn't.

She leaned down closer, and added, "I think you're up to something."

He smiled.

Maybe he was.

"You're very handsome," she suddenly whispered, right at his ear, and even through his delirious overexcitement there was something in her cool voice that made him shudder. "And very young to be a colonel. Blond, blue-eyed, pretty face. You look like _his _type."

His type? Who?

She reached down, sweeping his freezing bangs from his eyes with very gentle fingers as a mother might. She placed her palm on his forehead, as though checking temperature. And then she leaned it and pressed her chest against his, so close that for a stunned moment he thought she would _kiss _him, but she only breathed in the scent of his uniform. A second of thoughtfully narrowed eyes, and she suddenly whispered, "Ivan."

He shuddered.

"I knew it."

She was staring down at him, but all he could think was, _'Whee_!'

The room was spinning.

He felt giddy and sick and tired and cold and somehow, beneath it all, so frightened.

Where was he?

She pulled back, and her fingers were suddenly not so gentle as she grabbed his collar with both hands and pulled him upright. Deep blue eyes boring into his own, she clenched his collar so tightly that he could barely breathe, and it was with a sharp tone that she said, voice low and fervent, "Where are you going? Are you running? From _him_? Are you?"

He could only stare at her in a numb stupor.

"Huh? Are you trying to run from Ivan?"

He could not think quick enough to answer her questions.

"You're a new one, aren't you? Aren't you?"

Her voice was becoming high with what could have been rage.

"Aren't you? Answer me!"

He couldn't. He couldn't find his voice.

She shoved him back down on the floor, and his head began to pound with a dull pain as his chest started to clench up. His heart was palpitating strangely. Everything seemed to slow down. What was wrong with him?

Then she crawled on top of him, straddling him on either side, and her knees pinned his arms into the carpet.

For a dumb moment, he looked up at her, and did not remember how he had met her. A strange woman on top of him? Ah. Right. He tried to open his mouth and say, 'Listen, lady, this is a little fast for me,' but he couldn't.

He furrowed his brow and stared up at her, as though through a fog, and she was not smiling.

Actually, she was pretty damn scary.

"Ivan brought you home with him, didn't he?"

When he didn't answer, she leaned down, her hair falling back down into his face.

Her voice was soft. Too serene. Void of emotion.

"You know, ten years ago, Ivan and I were engaged. We both lived in Moscow. This was a long time ago. My father was a general, you see, and he promised Ivan quick rising through the ranks if he would take my hand. Ivan's family name has a long history. Very honorable! A noble name to my father, for his only daughter to take."

She ran her hands down his neck in slow, gentle movements.

He felt sleepy under her hands. He closed his eyes.

She kept on talking.

"Ivan became a general after only four years. Unprecedented, you know. And then, after five years, my father died, and do you know how Ivan repaid me? He went out on a tour, and when he came _back_, he had that useless little bastard, Toris, with him! You know what he did? He called off our engagement! He shamed me in front of everyone! My reputation was gone! I was alone. And I made his life a living hell for it. Then he moved all the way out here just to get away from me."

She smiled, now, and Ludwig could only shudder beneath her.

"But I followed him. I came here to Lensk. Can you! Can you imagine his surprise when he held his first ball here and _I _show up? He was so upset that he called the party off early and went straight back to Mirny with his tail between his legs! And then he told me if I ever showed up uninvited again, he would shoot me! Coward! He can't run from me forever! He ruined me. And now..."

She reached into the waist of her skirt, and pulled something out.

A shine in the light.

And when he made out the shape of a knife, his brain suddenly came back to life as though someone had flipped on a switch.

Adrenaline surged.

She gripped the knife in both hands, and held it in contemplation in front of her chest.

"It's not that I need him, you see. It's just that..."

She raised the knife up above her head.

"I just want him to be with me forever, so that way he can be miserable. I would ruin him, as he ruined me. And, well, I would be lying if I said I didn't love him a little."

What? This woman was insane. She made no sense. He could barely process her words, eyes frozen on the knife in the air.

She just smiled down at him.

"Now, every few years," she said, as she held her hands up high above him, the knife gleaming in the firelight, her knees pinning him, and oh, God, he thought she would plunge it down, as her hands trembled with what could have been suppressed rage, "he brings home someone _new_! What a disgrace to my father's memory! I told him, you know! If he wants to be with someone, it should be me! I've always been here! We were supposed to be _married_! I got him where he is! _Me_! My family's hard work! _My _dedication to him, _my _father's guidance after _his _father went crazy! Without me, he and his dumb sister would have frozen in the streets! _She _could never hold a job, the poor twit, and if he hadn't gotten up to general so fast they would have starved to death! And he repays...he repays me with _you_? Look at you! Who are you? Where he did pick you up from? He took you up as easily as one does a stray _dog_!"

She braced her arms.

"It's alright. If I kill you, it will make him angry. Hurt him a little. Maybe it will teach him a lesson about playing with girls. You know, some of us do take these kind of things so personally. It's not your fault, I suppose. What a shame. Well. You should have run better."

He panicked.

A flash of steel, a quick lunge. He had only a second to react.

Gathering the very last of his strength, he kicked off the ground with his numb legs, pulling one of his arms out from beneath her knees with clumsy speed just as the knife was coming down. He knocked it at the last second, and the edge of it cut into the side of his forehead. She tried to raise it again, and he acted; one fierce blow to the side of her head, and she fell over, and he crawled on top of her as she clawed out for the dropped knife.

"Stop!" he cried, as he ripped her over onto her back and grabbed up her wrists in his hands, pinning her down, and her eyes were blazing with absolute fury. "Stop!"

She struggled beneath him, cursing and spitting like a viper, and then finally she fell still, and he fell still too in exhaustion, the only movement that of the drops of water and blood that fell from his forehead down onto her collar.

Her eyes were terrifying. Just voids of rage and hate and _nothing_.

Crazy.

He feared her, he realized, more than he did Ivan.

A silence between them, and his head was swimming, his heart racing, and God, he was still so cold...

He couldn't breathe.

The adrenaline that had saved him was seeping out. He was going to fall over.

Dizzy and tired, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, and managed to moan, as his heart lurched, "Stop. Just stop. Listen..."

He shook his head to clear it, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring at him with an exceedingly alarming intensity.

"I'm listening."

Everyone out here was fucking _crazy_.

"I don't care...about you and Ivan. You want him? So what? Why don't you just _help _me? Just help me! Help me get out of here. Help me. You don't want me here. I don't want to be here. Help me."

He lost his strength and fell silent in both exhaustion and confusion. For a moment, she stared up at him, and the burning in her eyes dulled down into an almost calculating coolness.

Another silence, and she said, curtly, "Let me up."

He did.

But he reached the knife first, and grabbed it up, tucking it into his waistline. She watched him calmly, and then waved her hand to the couch as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. "Please. Sit."

He did not need to be told again, and collapsed upon it, mindful of the knife, falling down onto his side wearily. Immediately, he began to fall into unconsciousness, and he heard her walking around, pacing back and forth, as though she were deep in thought.

He faded. The edge of his vision was black.

Then she knelt before him, and grabbed his shoulder.

A gentle shake.

"Hey, hey, can you hear me?"

He struggled to look up at her.

She placed two warm fingers on his neck and felt his pulse. A smile, and she said, "Ivan must be really besotted with you. No one has ever made it to colonel before. And to throw another ball..." Her smile feel into a sneer. "You must have raised some hell. He would be so upset if something happened to you. But maybe I can use you too. Maybe he would even be grateful if _I_ had saved you. Ha. What do you think?"

He barely comprehended her words.

Her eyes darted across the room, and then finally she added, "Listen, I'm going to call someone now. You're dying of hypothermia. But do me a favor; when they get here, don't even tell them how bad you feel. Your heart will just stop on its own after a few hours. Death will be a blessing to you, yeah? So don't tell, okay? You said you wanted out. This is the way, okay?"

She met his eyes, and placed her index finger over his mouth, hissing, gently, "Shh!" and smiled. "It's just a game!"

And he smiled too. A silent game?

Death was his prize.

Finally she left the room, sounds of bustling from the kitchen, and then he heard her voice, very soft and very smooth, as though she was speaking to someone. He thought he heard the sound of a phone being slammed down.

His vision blurred.

He could not stop shivering.

Was he really dying? His heart was beating so strangely.

_Bang!_

Everything was spinning, and maybe he could understand why Erzsébet had dropped the gun. The feel of steel, even just from a knife, was almost overwhelming.

Cold.

Or had it been Roderich?

Maybe it had been Roderich. Erzsébet had found one of Gilbert's guns, and had tossed it to Roderich playfully, and Roderich had fumbled it straight to the floor, jumping back from it as though it would bite him. But then, Roderich was a fan of culture and poise, not of firearms and bullets. Roderich could not hold a gun up straight, let alone hope to shoot one.

Roderich, with his aristocrat's hands.

He felt like he was swimming.

His chest hurt.

He wanted to go home.

Home.

Home?

He was not certain exactly where home _was _anymore.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his heart, and he could not help but hiss aloud at the ache, then a great dullness settled over his mind, and he was no longer cold.

His cheeks were reddening with what felt like a heat flash.

Shock. Numbness.

Time passed.

The room was warm.

His fingers began to twitch.

Colors faded into dullness.

Time passed.

And then there was a knock on the door.

_Ludwig, I'm home!_

He watched with mild confusion as it swung open, and there was a flurry of snow, and then very pale hair in the firelight.

Gilbert?

Gilbert had come home.

So late.

The hour felt very late.

Grabbing the cushion of the sofa, he pulled himself up with a great effort, and smiled. Because there was Gilbert standing before him, he was sure of it, and suddenly there were cool hands on his face, and Gilbert was kneeling before, speaking gently and running fingers through his hair.

"Are you alright?"

He could only nod, vaguely remembering that the pretty woman had told him not to mention any pain or discomfort, and then he reached up with unsteady arms and embraced Gilbert around the neck, burying his face in his shoulder, moaning, "I missed you!"

Even though his mind was blurry, and even though his heart was beating irregularly, and even though his head was pounding, he never stopped to think that maybe...

"You missed me? I'm..."

Strong arms embraced him, and there were lips on the top of his head, and it was with effort that he added, fondly, "Why were you out so late, Gilbert? I was worried about you."

A silence.

And then there was a soft, sharp, "Gil—oh, damn."

Gilbert pulled away from the embrace quickly, and suddenly, when he looked up, it wasn't Gilbert anymore.

It was Ivan, and he was staring down at him with a furrowed brow and stern eyes. His eyes were lavender, not crimson, his skin was light beige, not ivory, and his hair was pale golden, not silver.

Ivan.

Tall and broad-shouldered and imposing. Overwhelming. Handsome.

Powerful.

But even though it was just Ivan (_just _Ivan? Since when had he only been _just _Ivan?), he smiled nonetheless.

He felt a return of that strange flow of exhilaration in his veins, almost like he had swallowed one of those pills that Gilbert used to take sometimes before he went out to a rave. He could not seem to find a very good reason to be upset at all.

"Oh, it's you! Well, then, why were _you _out so late?"

Another silence, and then Ivan sighed in what could have been exasperation, and took his hands, pulling him up from the couch with one mighty yank. The movement made his chest clench up with a terrible pain, and for a dizzy moment, he thought he was having a heart attack.

It passed, and then he saw Toris standing over near the door.

He reached up and waved clumsily, but Toris did not wave back, and he remembered, after a moment of thought, that he was angry at Toris, although he could not remember exactly why, and it didn't matter anymore anyway.

Ivan looked around the room, and then dragged him over to a door, and when he kicked it open with his foot, breaking it off its hinges, Ludwig muttered, chidingly, "You're gonna have to fix that, you know."

Ivan only grunted, "Yeah, yeah."

There was a bed, and Ivan settled him down on to it with slow movements. He grabbed up a heater from the floor and moved it up onto an end table, and when he turned it on, Ludwig frowned.

It was too hot in here already.

Toris was beside him suddenly, and Ivan leaned down next to him, gripping his hand and saying, "Don't move. I'll be back soon. Get warm."

Footsteps, and then Ivan was gone. He turned his head to Toris, who averted his eyes, staring off at the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. His foot was tapping furiously, and from the twitching of his lips, he obviously was struggling with something that he wanted to say.

Ludwig could only stare up at him, and search through the mist to try and grasp the memory of why he should be angry at Toris.

_Come on! Get up!_

A walk in the snow.

Alone.

A jolt of something, and he said, aloud, "Toris! I wish you would have come with me. It was a pretty night."

Toris was at his side, reaching out and grabbing his hand, and even through his delirium Ludwig could see the distress and misery in his eyes as he cried, "I had to do it! I had to! You would have gotten lost. You would have ran out of gas, and froze to death out there in the middle of nowhere. I had to stop it. Don't you... Don't you understand? I just...wanted to help."

He had a strange urge suddenly to reach up and slap Toris across the face, but he was distracted momentarily by how _hot _it was, and the giddiness was overwhelming anyhow.

His toes were stinging, as though someone were shocking them.

Something warm was dripping down his forehead.

He reached up with numb hands, trying to unbutton his shirt.

"Can't you turn the heater off?" he asked, as he fumbled with the buttons, and Toris furrowed a brow, eyes wide in what looked like fright, and he did not understand why everyone was acting so _strangely_.

"Ludwig, stop."

He looked over.

Ivan was back, and the woman was at his side, and from the looks on their faces they had been arguing.

Ivan's cheeks were red with anger. What, had he done something wrong again?

He opened his mouth, but then Ivan was suddenly upon him like a tiger, bushing aside his bangs and observing the cut on his forehead with a critical eye. He looked over his shoulder, at the woman behind him, and the danger in his voice was audible as he hissed at her in Russian.

...had she cut him?

He could not remember.

She crossed her arms above her chest, and then Ivan turned back to him, running a gloved thumb over the cut. He met Ludwig's eyes, and whispered, with an almost disappointed click of his tongue, "I would have had you cut anywhere but your face."

A movement at his side, and Toris was gone.

The woman behind was staring at him over Ivan's shoulder, and she held her finger up to her lips and smiled at him, and when Ivan pressed forward and kissed Ludwig's forehead, she spun around on her heel and stalked out, eyes blazing.

Then it was just Ivan.

Sitting down next to him, Ivan threw a heavy arm around his shoulder, and shook him.

"Hey. Look at me."

He did, and Ivan's cool eyes bored into his with that unnerving intensity that he had almost become accustomed to.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Remember?

He remembered being cold. He remembered walking for what felt like an eternity.

"Do you know where you are?"

He was so tired...

He could not feel his feet.

He shook his head.

Ivan removed his gloves, and when he ran his hand down Ludwig's neck, he frowned.

"You haven't warmed up any. How are you feeling? Your chest doesn't hurt, does it?"

He heard a faint, '_Shh_' in his ears, and smiled.

"No, no, I'm fine!" he said, and was pleased that he was playing 'the silent game' with efficiency.

A furrowed brow from Ivan, but then he smiled, and there was hardly any concern in his eyes as he reached out with steady fingers, tugging strands of his damp hair gently, and it was with an almost cheery voice that he said, "Don't worry about it! Sometimes, when you get too cold, your brain can get a little strange. Almost like drinking a lot of vodka." Then Ivan was holding his face in his hands, and added, "But! You are very determined, aren't you? I like that. I do." Ivan pulled the cover up and raised it to his shoulders, and then he took up a cloth from the end table and began to dab at the blood on Ludwig's forehead. "You're not afraid of anything, are you?"

Afraid?

Afraid. Yes. He was afraid of that woman. He was afraid of _Ivan_. Even if he was not quite sure why.

"I left you there because I knew you would be strong enough to return. Brave enough. I love that about you. I probably could have put you out farther, and you still would have made it. See? I knew you'd come back to me. I was right."

The cloth was tossed aside, and then Ivan pushed him down into the pillows.

Come back? Was that why he was here? Had he come back for Ivan? He squinted his eyes in thought.

Then Ivan was upon him and their noses touched, and Ivan's eyes were much more intense. He snapped fingers before Ludwig's eyes, whispering, "But you know... Bravery and stupidity can sometimes be the same. You won't ever get out of here without me. Are you understanding me?"

He nodded, and Ivan's words cut through his delirium like a knife as he whispered, "If I ever catch you running again... Something unfortunate might happen to your Gilbert. Don't you remember your end of the bargain? You took his place, remember? That means you stay here. You go where I tell you to go. You made a deal; I expect you to honor it. For your brother's sake."

For a moment, he could only lie there, caught under Ivan's eyes, and maybe it was just the heaviness in his heart, but when Ivan shook him and asked him again, "Will you stay with me?" he nodded.

A deal.

A deal. He had made a deal. Bound by blood. And Ivan's statement seemed to make perfect sense in his fuzzy mind. He had made a deal. A contract, and, as Roderich would say, contracts could not be broken...

"Are you going to run again?"

How could he?

He shook his head.

"_Now_," Ivan whispered, breath warm, "we are understanding each other."

Were they? Maybe he would never understand Ivan. But then, he had never really understood Gilbert, either, but that had turned out okay.

Gilbert.

Ivan reached out and began to stroke his hair.

"Hey. Don't worry about it so much. I know you'll stay here. You'd like it, if you gave it a chance. You don't have to be scared. It's alright. I'll take care of you. Come here. I wouldn't ever hurt you."

Warmth.

He closed his eyes, and leaned back, allowing Ivan to do as he pleased.

At least he wasn't alone. Maybe it wasn't Gilbert here with him, but that was alright.

Gilbert had done his part. Ludwig had repaid him.

They were even.

A deal.

And even if he would never see his brother again, even if he never spoke to him again, if he never again could picture his brother's face in his mind, even if Gilbert forgot _everything_, it was alright.

Gilbert could forget, and he would stay here, and keep a silent vigil over his brother's life from afar.

Maybe it was just another game, because as long as he stayed here with Ivan...

Ivan fell heavily against him, whispering, "You're so cold still! Here, I'll keep you warm."

...then Gilbert would stay safe.

Maybe he could somehow win, in the end.

Hands grabbed his face. He did not have the strength nor the will to break away. Lips against his own. Fingers tangled in his hair. A heaviness on his chest. A scrape of teeth down his neck, and then his collarbone. Hands roaming down to his chest, fingertips brushing his abdomen. A knee in between his legs.

Everything was warm.

"You're so brave, aren't you? Look, you're so quiet. You don't even cry."

God, it was so hot in here.

Ivan was far too warm on top of him. Any fear that he would have felt completely forgotten in a haze of warmth and sudden dizziness, he pushed at Ivan's chest and said, dazedly, "Get off. Aren't you hot? It's so hot in here..."

A thoughtful silence from Ivan. Another sharp pain in his chest.

...where _was_ he?

Then Ivan reached out and ran a hand up under his shirt, laying his palm on his bare chest and feeling his heartbeat. A moment of narrowed-eyed concentration, and then he frowned.

"Too slow. You said your chest didn't hurt."

Ivan reached over and ripped open the drawer of the end table, searching through its contents with fervor. Then he grabbed something, and yanked it out, and when he leaned forward, he placed it in front of Ludwig's mouth and said, quickly, "Under your tongue."

A pressure in his mouth, something hard under his tongue, and Ivan watched him with a furrowed brow. It stayed there for a few minutes, and he realized, vaguely, that it was a thermometer. He did not notice when Ivan removed it until he was holding it up in the air.

Ivan sat in silence, staring up at the mercury, and finally he whispered, more to himself, "Eighty-eight?" And then, with a growl, Ivan grabbed his shoulders and shook him, gently, hissing, "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me what was wrong with you? Huh? You took the hat off, didn't you? Didn't you? Why? Are you stupid?"

_Shh! It's just a game!_

Smiling at the look on Ivan's face, he could only reach up and put his finger above his mouth, whispering, "I'm playing a game. I think I'm winning, but I'm not sure."

Gilbert loved games. He giggled, as Ivan stared at him with a low brow and wide eyes. He and Gilbert used to play games all the time.

Then Ivan leapt from the bed, crying, "_Shit! Shit!_" and Ludwig could only wonder, as he tried to roll over and nearly fell on the floor, what was going on, and why it was so mercilessly hot in this room. Ivan's strong hands stopped him from rolling over the edge, and he said, "Stop! Sleep, now. You have hypothermia. She knew, didn't she? She told you, didn't she? _Damn_, I should have noticed it earlier! Don't move too much. Your heart might give out. But don't worry. I know what to do."

The hands were gone, and he closed his eyes, drifting away as Ivan covered him with the blanket and shouted, "Natalia! _Natalia_!" The heater was suddenly blowing onto him from the edge of the bed. He tried to kick at with his feet and knock it over.

Too damn hot. What was Ivan thinking?

"_Stop it_!" Ivan hissed, as he grabbed the heater and pulled it forward. "You're not hot. It will pass soon. Just stay still."

And then the woman, Natalia no doubt, was in the doorway, eyes unreadable and arms across her chest, and Ludwig could not remember where he had met her. Ivan began to scream at her, and Ludwig tried to sit up, squinting his eyes as he watched them hissing back and forth.

Where had he seen her? His heart was lurching in his chest.

"Hey," he said, suddenly, and even though she was waving a finger in his face they stopped and turned to look at him, "Ivan, is that your wife? You should have told me that you had...a wife."

They stared at him, Ivan's brow coming down, and Natalia smiled.

She said, immediately, "Yes. I'm his wife! Remember, I told you?"

He could swear, even through the strange fog in his mind, that Ivan shuddered.

Ivan turned then and grabbed her arms forcefully enough to make her wince, shoving her out of the door without gentleness, and Ludwig tried to lean over and take off his socks.

"Ludwig."

He looked up, blearily.

Ivan was watching him.

"She's not my wife."

"Oh," was all he could manage, as Ivan watched him with cool eyes.

Minutes of silence passed, and he laid back onto the bed, exhausted and dizzy, and Natalia was back. In her hands she held a bag of liquid, and a clear tube. Even in his daze, he knew an IV when he saw one, and could only watch dumbly as Ivan took it from her with sharp words and then sat down on the edge of the bed, grumbling, "Crazy bitch."

Ludwig looked up at him, and said, dreamily, "You shouldn't call your wife that!"

Ivan glanced at him through narrowed eyes and said, "She's _not_ my wife. Remember?"

Before he could think of a response, Ivan reached out and took his arm, bringing Ludwig's hand up and looking over it as though he were performing an inspection. His hands were warm, like always, and gentle. He pushed his fingers into Ludwig's wrist, head tilted, and then muttered, "You don't have very good veins."

No, he didn't.

Gilbert and Roderich took him to the doctor right after they had found him, and the doctor said he was dehydrated and needed fluids, but he tapped here and there and poked over and over again before he found a vein that would hold.

So many pricks...

Gilbert had held his hand the whole time.

Like Ivan was now.

Ivan clenched his hand in between both his own, and began to rub back and forth. It was uncomfortable, as his numb skin began to warm and sting, but Ivan smiled down at him the whole time, and that made it a little better because Gilbert had smiled at him, too. And everything had turned out alright in the end.

A deal.

"I might have to put it in your wrist," Ivan suddenly said, meeting his eyes. "Alright?"

He did not respond, watching Ivan's hands rubbing his own. A few minutes of heat, and then Ivan raised his hand again and looked it over. He picked up the needle, and brought it down until the tip of it grazed his skin.

"Why don't you close your eyes?" Ivan said, as he held the needle up above the outer bone of his wrist. "This will hurt a little."

He did, and there was a dull, throbbing pain as the needle sank down past the bone and into a vein. A tug and a sharp sting, and Ivan's hands left for a second, and then they were back, tying the cord in.

And then there was a sudden flow of warmth through his veins, and, God, it _hurt_.

"Sorry," Ivan murmured, as he squinted his eyes and clenched the blanket, "It has to be hot. Your blood isn't running fast enough. This will help. It won't hurt for long."

A silence.

"Feel better?"

He could only hang his head, as the fire burned his veins and ripped below his skin, and Ivan was suddenly pulling him back down onto his back.

"Don't move. Go to sleep."

Warm hands were on his chest, and he finally opened his eyes.

Ivan lay next to him, on his side, and his face showed only calm and seriousness as he dug the tips of his fingers into the flesh above his heart, massaging up and down. A meeting of eyes, and Ivan said, "To get the blood back to your heart faster." Ludwig lowered his eyes, watching Ivan's fingers, large and strong and yet oddly gentle, and then Ivan was smiling again. "Out here, everyone has to know how to treat hypothermia. Even children."

His head was killing him.

"You survived the snow again. Maybe you were meant to be born Russian."

Him? Russian?

He did not know why—God, he couldn't think—but he laid back in the pillows and started to laugh. Ivan hovered over him the whole time with that constant smile, whispering words of encouragement and admiration in his ears, and even though he had spent his entire life hating the Soviet Union...

No one had ever spent hours telling him how strong he was, how brave and fearless, how he was better than all of _them_, whoever _they _were, and how beautiful.

Ivan was watching him.

Watching him. He never looked away. Always watching him.

It was alright.

The fingers continued to massage his heart. The fire in his veins was dulling.

The unbearable heat was dissipating. Everything was cold again.

The mist was thinning.

He could get used to the cold. He had always liked the moon more than the sun, anyway.

Ivan fell in beside him, placing the bag of fluid on the wooden head of the bed, as the shiver returned with a vengeance, and Ivan was quick to soothe, "Don't worry. That means your body is waking up again. Don't worry."

Ivan wrapped him in his arms then and held him to his chest, and oh, God help him...

He pressed forward, burying his numb nose in the collar of Ivan's coat, because it was _so _cold and he was _so _lonely and there was no one here that he knew and Gilbert was _gone_.

The delirium of hypothermia slowly began to fade, and he hated himself for being so reliant on Ivan for survival, and he had _never _been meant to be born a Russian.

He was a German. He was not made for this cold.

He would bear it nonetheless, because it was for Gilbert. To keep Gilbert safe.

And he _remembered_, finally, as Ivan ran rough fingers through his hair and the fog began to lift, that it had been _him_, all those years ago, who had dropped the gun.

Gilbert had placed it in his hands and came around behind him, and when he had held it the correct way, Gilbert lifted his arms up straight, his chest pressing warmly into Ludwig's back, and he had raised his hands up, up, until it had been level.

_Aim._

His heart had been racing the whole time, and when Gilbert had gripped his hands tightly and screamed, '_Bang_!' in his ear, he had jumped so hard that he fumbled the gun straight to the floor.

_Fire!_

Gilbert had laughed, as he knelt down on the floor and picked it up, and Ludwig had been annoyed, and then Gilbert had come over to him and slapped him on the back, his eyes more serious, and he had whispered, '_I'm glad. I don't ever wanna see you have to hold a gun. You won't ever need to. That's why I'm here, to protect you. I'm all you need._'

Gilbert could not have known that there would come a day when a gun would be of absolutely no help, when he would not be able to _protect_.

Gilbert had cared for him more than anyone else ever had. He would never forget _that_.

He would not run again.

_Together._

He and Gilbert would _never _be together.

_Forever._

There was only Ivan. That was _his _decision. There was no one to blame but himself. It was not Gilbert's fault. It was not Toris' fault.

_You can depend on me._

He fell asleep, as Ivan held him close, and when the IV was finally empty several hours later, when the threat of hypothermia was only a vague memory, Ivan sat him up and began to whisper in his ear, and was quick to remind him, just in case he had forgotten, who had saved him from the cold, again, and who had brought him back from the dark, again, and who had stayed at his side while he recovered, again, and who had kept him safe.

Again.

His decision. He would not run again.

He was so tired of running. He would not run again.

He was tired.

It was too cold outside.

...Ivan's hands were always warm.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Now what?

Sure, it had been easy before, holding the map within his hands as Roderich's pretty writing squiggled a line this way and that through the streets, leading him straight down to even the very gates of Hell. But now what?

The sky was grey, ever darkening as the hidden sun fell lower and lower. Snow fell. It wasn't so cold. Chilly, maybe, but not very cold.

Gilbert looked down at the map.

He knew _where _to go, alright; the line still went on, straight through Berlin, straight through Dresden, straight through Prague, and down into Brno, tidy and sure and never faltering.

He had gone straight on through Berlin, hailing taxis like he had so many times in the past, and he had gone all the way down to Dresden, and he had walked the streets there to calm himself before he had traveled down and down, closer and closer, and then there was a problem.

Because Roderich's pen could flow straight through the Czechoslovakian border.

He could not.

Roderich's pen was waiting in Brno.

And he was stuck in the far outskirts of Dresden, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, as the border crossing stood down the road, and he was slowly beginning to realize that he had been perhaps a bit hasty in his decision to come alone.

He should have brought Alfred, who at least had a passport, and who at least could use both of his hands efficiently.

He didn't have a passport. He could not wait to get one, and even if he did have the luxury of such time, he still would not have gone to the office. Because even though the frightening Russian had _said _that he would expunge any and all records of Gilbert's presence in the _Stasi_ building, that could have been a lie, and it made him shudder down to his boots to imagine the businesses in the GDR having his photo up on the list of wanted criminals, and if they saw him they would call the police, who would ship him back off to the _Stasi_, and he would be straight back where he had been, and Ludwig would be lost to the winds.

The worst thought.

He had no _choice _but to border-hop. He should have brought Alfred.

It was too late now, and he gripped the map in his hands as he studied it, as cars and pedestrians passed him by, going down and passing straight through the gates without any hindrance, just because of their papers.

It wasn't fair.

Whether it was fair or not, there was no point in lingering here; the roads were too busy, the guards too many, and the chances too few.

He could not pass here.

Rolling up the map and pulling his coat tightly around himself, he started off back down the snowy road from whence he had came, and when he spotted the first taxi, he leapt inside and said only, "Zittau."

"No problem," came the relaxed drawl, and as the paved world of Dresden began to give way to forests and hills, Gilbert opened up his coat, and pulled out his wallet.

Its contents were as dismal as his mood.

No I.D. One paper, with Roderich's office number scribbled down. A small, folded string of thread. A sewing needle. Two Band-Aids. 300 Western Marks, down from the 1000 that Roderich had given him. 200 Eastern Marks, from what he had scrounged up in his flat.

And one 100 United States Dollar bill, that Alfred had bestowed upon him as a parting gift, with the wise words of, '_If you're in a tight spot, just pull this baby out and say, 'Let's let Mr. Franklin do the talkin'_!''

Alfred had only given it to him for the sake of Ludwig.

Everyone...

They were only interested in the well-being of Ludwig. He couldn't blame them.

The gun in his waist pressed uncomfortably against his belt.

Time passed in silence.

It was dark. The sky was clouded. A pale, blurry ring of white light that struggled to break through the front was all that was visible of the moon.

The moon was hidden. No stars.

He hated the night.

The taxi driver tried to make small talk; he ignored him, leaning his head against the window and watching the towns pass, and with every mile they went, he could feel the horrible tightening of anxiety in his stomach.

An hour or so later, the vehicle finally slowed to a stop, and he was so close to passing out or vomiting or running away that he barely even remembered stuffing money into the driver's hands and staggering out of the car back into the night air.

He clenched his hands at his sides to prevent them from trembling, and stalked off into the dark town streets, and he did not stop until the buildings thinned and the streetlamps were few and far between.

He settled under the very last lamppost on the street, and pulled out his map.

Once he passed out of the town, then there was the forest, and he _wished _that he had brought a compass, because Zittau was nestled right in between the Czechoslovakian border as well as the Polish one, and if he got turned around and unwittingly wound up in Poland, then it would take effort that he was unsure he possessed to get back on the right path.

He looked up at the white sky.

No stars. He could not use them.

Cursing to himself, he ambled off from under the light and back into the dark, and set off out of the town limits. There weren't any buildings anymore. Small houses dotted the horizon on the hills that rose up.

Just one dirt road.

The street was lined with trees. Everything was dark. The snow shimmered.

An hour of walking. His feet hurt. His head hurt. His legs were sore.

Another hour.

His hand throbbed from the cold air. His pace was slow. His ankle was still a bit tender.

Ludwig had endured such pain for him. Maybe more.

Lights loomed in the distance, people talking and dogs barking, and he knew he had reached the border crossing.

It was time.

Maybe Ludwig was in pain right now, too.

He leapt from the road, and, with a great breath to steady himself, darted into the dark, ominous forest. The trees were scraggly and tight together, and he struggled to push through the underbrush as thorns and briars snagged his pants, and his movements made clumps of snow fall from the branches and into his hair. It fell down the back of his collar, and he shivered, but he pressed forward regardless, holding his arms up beside his head as he pushed through the branches.

There were patches of briars so tall and so thick that he was forced to head off to the side and find a way around them, and everything was so _dark_. He could barely see what was in front of him. The trees were tall and unmoving, there was no wind, and everything was far too quiet.

Quiet.

What lived in these woods?

Monsters, maybe.

He pushed on. He had hoped the forest would be more manageable.

It seemed that, instead of formulating valid plans, he just _hoped_ for a lot of things. He was an idiot.

His fingers were numb.

His hands were bleeding, after pushing aside so many thorns. His back was wet with melted snow.

He pushed on for what felt like hours.

He was terrified of the dark.

Every time something shifted beyond, his heart raced so quickly that he felt dizzy.

He hated this silence. He hated this solitude. He just wanted Ludwig.

A sharp pine branch scratched his face, and a briar from behind caught in his pants firmly enough to make him stumble forward.

He fell.

And for a dazed moment, as he lie there in the thorns and weeds, in the dirt and patches of snow, he just wanted to close his eyes, and go to sleep. His chest was aching, his hands stung from countless pricks, and it seemed for all the world like the undergrowth was just going to creep over him and swallow him whole.

Maybe the forest had a mind of its own.

He rested his head on the ground, and closed his eyes.

He had spent many days of his life like this, it seemed, lying facedown in the dirt, dazed and confused and so tired.

_Gilbert, I wish you wouldn't drink so much._

He had always wound up letting someone down.

_Won't you stay home, just tonight?_

Usually Ludwig.

That Ludwig had even bothered to stay with him as long as he had was a miracle. He had failed so miserably as a big brother.

He had never been suited for that role, and even though he had loved Ludwig, and even though he had been so jealous of outsiders that he had never even let Ludwig have friends, and even though someone just _looking _at Ludwig in a manner he did not like would result in him spending the night in jail, he had never really taken the time to just stop and spend time with him once he had gotten older.

Ludwig had just turned out so serious. Sometimes, and he knew it was a horrible thought, but sometimes Gilbert had wished that Ludwig had turned out more like himself. Someone he could go out and have fun all night with.

Someone like himself.

But that wasn't Ludwig. He had never approved of Gilbert's outside activities, and he was always _so _worried. Ludwig had never wanted to spend all night partying, and sometimes Gilbert had resented him for it.

It wasn't Ludwig's fault.

He had let Ludwig down. He should have been more responsible. He should have accepted Ludwig's serious nature instead of belittling it. He had caused him only distress and pain. He had failed him.

_What is your brother worth to you?_

Yet still...

_Anything!_

Ludwig had loved him unconditionally nonetheless. Ludwig had done more for _him_. Ludwig had taken care of him when he came home hung-over. Ludwig had been the one who had come down to the police station and waited with him until Erzsébet showed up and paid his bail. Ludwig had been the one who had cleaned up his cuts and bruises. Ludwig had been the one to hold his head above the toilet. Ludwig had been the one who had put ice on his knuckles after a night of brawling.

And maybe Ludwig had turned out so serious, and so worried, and so pessimistic, and so _mature_, because he had had to watch over Gilbert, even though it should have been the other way around.

Gilbert should have been the mature one, watching over Ludwig as he lived out his youthful years like other kids did, wild and reckless and carefree. Ludwig had been saddled with the role of a parent, a babysitter, a nurse, and a corrections officer all in one.

The worst part of it all was that he had never even realized that his carelessness was causing his little brother such quiet suffering. Ludwig never complained about anything, and it was no small wonder that he had moved out only a few days after he had turned seventeen, after Roderich had procured him a small apartment, and Gilbert never visited him except for Christmas because he had been so _hurt_...

He had blamed Roderich, then, for tearing them apart, but it had never been Roderich's fault.

_You can't do anything right!_

...Roderich would have made a great guardian.

He'd heard Erzsébet saying it to him sometimes, when they didn't know Gilbert was standing there around the corner.

'You'd've been a great father! I know you would have.'

Roderich had never had the chance to play father to Ludwig, because Gilbert had begged and begged to take him. And in those moments, when Erzsébet was stroking the back of Roderich's neck comfortingly, when Roderich had shaken his head to himself and looked so _sad_, sad that Ludwig wasn't staying with them, when she leaned in and tried to tell Roderich that Ludwig was not going away forever, that Roderich could still see him and care for him, that Ludwig would always love _them_ too...

In those moments, he had hated them. He had hated that they thought they were better for Ludwig than he was.

They had been right all along.

Maybe if Ludwig had stayed with Roderich, he would have turned out more like a normal teenager, having been nestled in a warm net of security and parental guidance. A normal family.

Ludwig had deserved better.

And there was another guilt, too, one that he would never admit aloud.

The day he had taken Ludwig home, Roderich had placed his hand atop Ludwig's head, ruffling his hair, looking so disheartened, and when Gilbert had walked out, he had heard Erzsébet say to Roderich, 'It's alright. Say, don't worry. You'll have a son of your own one day.'

Roderich had smiled then, a little, as he watched Ludwig leave, but it hadn't happened. There had never been a son for Roderich.

Erzsébet couldn't have children. Ludwig had been it, for them. He had deprived them of caring for him. Their one opportunity. That's why Ludwig meant so much to them.

He ruined everyone, it seemed.

The snow continued to fall around him, and then something stirred near his head, and he finally managed to open his eyes.

Something was staring at him.

Oh. Shit.

He started in fright, digging his fingers into the wet, dead grass, but before he could pull himself up, he realized it was just a raccoon. It sat before him on its haunches, wringing its little hands together, and it stared down at Gilbert with a tilted head, eyes shining from behind its black mask.

He relaxed, and sighed in relief, and the furry animal approached him with minimal caution.

He only lied there, and did not move so as not to scare it, and it came over to him, and began to scratch and dig into his coat. Looking for food, no doubt, and he let it try to pry open the buttons on his pocket only because he was _lonely_, and he didn't have any food for it to steal anyhow.

It was a little comforting, to not be alone.

Even with just a small animal.

A minute of poking and sniffing, and the raccoon came up before his head and sat back down. And, deliriously, Gilbert raised his head and looked at it, and said, lowly, "I don't have anything for you. Sorry."

As if he were understood. Maybe he was losing it.

The raccoon's hands were wringing again, and as it stared at him without fear, he realized that it had been set loose in this forest deliberately. A wild raccoon would never have come up like this, right? Part of that stupid introduction program, to be sure, and this animal was probably as lonely and out of place here as he was.

Somewhere it didn't belong. Away from home. Alone.

Pressing his palms into the ground, he pushed himself off the ground, as the thorns scratched him and clung in his hair, and when he fell back onto his knees, the animal continued to stare at him, expectantly.

Waiting.

And for a moment, as he stared back at it, rubbing his chest as it ached, he had the stupid urge to grab the furball up and take it with him.

A companion was a companion, after all. He didn't want to be alone anymore.

But when he finally managed to pull himself to his feet, he could only watch in disappointment as the raccoon turned and scurried off into the trees, its bushy tail bobbing behind it, and he was alone again.

He was always alone.

Bowing his head, he braced his feet and sought out the courage to push onward.

Ludwig had deserved better.

When Ludwig was in Berlin, Gilbert would abandon him again, to Roderich and Erzsébet, and this time it would be for the best, and Ludwig would go to Vienna, and would never be in danger again. How it should have been all along.

Ludwig would become somebody, he just knew it, and Gilbert would watch from the newspapers and televisions as he did good in the world and helped people. Ludwig had always talked about helping people.

Ludwig's great dream in life, ridiculous or not, had been to be like Roderich, and become an ambassador.

Just a dream, maybe.

Well, whatever Ludwig became, he was sure it would be something grand. Ludwig would matter in the world.

He would just linger in the shadows, and watch. Ludwig would live his life. He would just linger like a phantom, and remember.

That was how it _had _to happen, because, oh God...

If Ludwig were dead, he could not bear it. Ludwig couldn't die. He couldn't.

Ludwig was the only person on this planet that _loved_ him.

If Ludwig was gone, then there was nothing.

Only night.

He took a shaky step, and was moving again, as fast as his sore legs would let him. He wasn't sure where he was anymore, and he prayed that he had not gone too far. There should have been a river somewhere, but he had not heard it yet.

It was getting colder.

And then, mercifully, after an eternity, the undergrowth began to thin, and he came to a clearing.

Snow.

He came out of the forest, and leaned down, resting his good hand on his knee and catching his breath.

Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. His chest hurt.

He stood there, in moments of exhausted vulnerability, and finally looked up.

Pale moonlight cast soft light over a field of snow. The blurry ring of white light that was the moon behind the clouds shone above, and he could see, up the hill, a house.

There were lights.

He changed direction and staggered up to it, and he didn't really know _why_, because he did not have time to sleep, and he was too sick to eat, but he was afraid of the forest, and any short reprieve would surely be beneficial.

He crept up the hill, closer and closer, and stayed silent as he approached. The house was large, and there was smoke from the chimney. He came closer, and could hear people laughing from within.

Boldly, he snuck up to a window, and poked his eyes around the edge.

People in the living room, a family, watching television as a fireplace roared off to the side, and for a moment, he blinked, and he _swore _that it was just him and Ludwig, and Roderich and Erzsébet, sitting there together like they had so many times in years past.

_We'll be together..._

Ludwig's hair caught fire in the bright light.

_Forever._

He blinked again, and Ludwig was gone. Just people he didn't know, and with a chill, he backed away from the window and crept off to the side. He passed around to the other end of the house, to another window, and when he looked through this one, he could see a dark, empty kitchen.

A refrigerator sat off to the side, its door covered with drawings held up with magnets.

A rush of adrenaline, and he reached out, grabbing the bottom of the window in his hands. He pushed up; it was not locked. He slid it up, quietly and carefully, and when it clicked in place, he leaned forward, grabbing the windowsill as best he could, and pulled himself up.

He nearly fell face-first on the tile, but he caught himself at the last second and lowered himself down.

For a moment, standing there inside the dark, warm kitchen, he just wanted to sit down at the table and go to sleep.

He was so _tired_.

But he couldn't, he just couldn't, and it was with determination that he stepped silently forward and snatched a magnet from the refrigerator door. He tucked it in his pocket, and took another one, just in case, and then he crept back to the window and leapt out, closing the glass and exiting the house as swiftly as he had come.

No point in taking food. He wasn't hungry.

The snow kept falling.

He trekked back down the hill, leaving the warmth and light of the house behind, and then he was back at the edge of the forest again, and it with a pang of regret that he pushed back into the trees.

This time, he went straight down.

He tried to be brave in the face of the dark, as Ludwig was. He walked, for what felt like hours but might have only been minutes, and then finally, he could hear the distant rush of a river.

Oh, thank God.

Relieved, he sped his pace, and when he finally broke through the trees again, this time there was the bank of a river before him. It cut through the middle of the forest, its flowing waters writhing this way and that as it roared along over the rocks. The outer waters were calm; the water in the middle was not.

The border was close. Now he had to cross the river.

On the bank, he hesitated, reluctant to dive into the freezing water, but the more he thought about it, the harder it would be. He was a strong swimmer, an avid fan of water, but stepping into a flowing river in the middle of the night, in winter, was frightening.

He could barely see.

Only a faint glimmer of moonlight on the top of the water.

He had to pass. There was no getting around it.

He was scared.

But he rushed forward anyway, and as soon as the water hit him, first his legs, and then his abdomen, and then his chest, he froze up, in a moment of shock, because it was _so _cold, and the strong current in the middle began to pull him along.

A second of immobility. His lungs hurt. The water started to take him.

When his head fell below the freezing water, he came back to earth with a jolt and spread his arms, and forced himself forward. It was not that wide (some small luck) and he found the other bank after only a few minutes of struggling against the current.

Hauling himself up onto the mud, he threw himself down, wrapping his arms around himself as he began to shiver. It was not preferable, to be wet in such weather, but unavoidable.

He lied there for a while, and stared up at the tree branches hanging above him. For one dumb, stupid moment, he was almost _proud_ of himself, because this was something that he had done easily that Ludwig could not.

Ludwig, for all of his strength and nerve and bravery, would have gone straight under. Ludwig couldn't swim for shit. Ludwig would have come to this river, and would have been forced to detour.

Gilbert had been able to pass it.

Stupid, sure, but there were very few things in this life that he bested Ludwig at.

He had to still think of Ludwig as alive and well.

He had to.

Clenching his teeth, he looked around at the forest, and knew that shortly down, there would be a barbed wire fence that separated the countries. He would cross there, in between the guard towers, and if he was lucky, he would pass unnoticed.

He took his soaking map, and set it open upon the ground.

Reaching into his pocket with trembling hands, he pulled out the magnet and the needle from his wallet, and struggled to hold the needle in his barely mobile left hand. Somehow, he managed to grip it, and with his other hand he took up the magnet and started rubbing them together.

Minutes of fumbling attempts, and finally, when it had been what he imagined was long enough, he put the needle in his teeth and tossed the magnet back in his pocket. Crawling forward on his knees, he searched the ground for a dead leaf, and when he finally found one against the mud that looked good enough, he set the needle down inside of it. And now it was the end of the dead leaf that he clenched in his teeth, as he plunged his hands into the river and cupped water between them.

And now...

Gently, so as not to spill the needle, he lowered his head and set the leaf down in the still waters that he held in his palms, and watched.

He may have been an idiot, but he knew _some_ things. But as to whether or not it would work?

On the rocks.

A moment of terrible nervousness, as his heart banged in his chest, and then the leaf began to twitch as the magnetized needle shifted and flitted towards the north. He turned his eyes down to the map, struggling to see it for the dark, and when he finally made out the direction in which he was heading, he shuddered in horror.

He had been going the wrong way.

He had almost messed up.

Oh, thank God that he had been paying attention in those stupid school classes, because if he hadn't known how to make an improvised compass then he would have gone straight into Poland.

He would never belittle school again.

He had nearly made a mistake. Christ. He had gone too far.

Spilling the water from his hands, he put the needle back in his pocket and grabbed up the map, and it was with much more confidence that he walked along the river until he knew he was in the right place.

He went back into the forest, and snuck down, and before long there was a short, small barbed wire fence. The first hurdle. He crossed between it easily, but that was just the first, and then there was another, and when he crossed it, he could see lights in the distance.

A larger fence. A guard tower loomed above. Dogs were barking. A light passed above him, as he peered out from the trees, and then fled, and then passed above him.

He waited until the light had just passed, and then, fighting away the lurching nausea in his stomach, he bolted forward, and prayed, prayed, that they would not notice him.

The first yards went smoothly; the snow slowed him down a bit, but that could not be helped, and he could see the fence, so close before him.

Someone shouted.

Shit.

And then the light was moving again, and he realized, with a dizzying lurch of terror, that they had _seen_ him, and now they were trying to put the light on him, and then they would shoot him—

The fence was right there.

He leapt forward and grabbed a hold of the rolled, tangled mass of barbed and razor wire, and he could only grit his teeth as he passed through it and cut himself, but he could not stop, and then he was in the middle, surrounded on all sides by twisting metal, and then he could see the other side, and then he felt his hands break through and grab only air.

His broken hand hurt as he pushed it to work too hard, too fast.

A gunshot fell somewhere near him, and he froze for a dumb moment in horror, and then another shot fell so close that he could feel it move his hair, and then he broke through the wire.

He ran.

The trees were so close.

He leapt over another short fence, and then the other, and then the edge of the forest, and he could hear commotion behind him.

The light fell upon him again.

Gunshots at his feet, and he staggered out into the trees, clenching his hand to his chest as it ached like it was on fire, and then he could hear the barking of dogs, and oh, God, he could feel the cold sweat running down his face as he bolted in between the trunks and ducked beneath the branches.

Oh God, oh God, they were going to catch him—

The barking was closer.

He had never run so hard in his entire life.

He swerved this way and that through the trees, and he was glad now, for the snow, because the barking was farther away, and he realized that the dogs were losing his trail in the white gloom.

He ran.

His heart was pounding so fiercely he was afraid it would explode. Then the trees were gone, and there was a field, and in the distance, there was a small, snow-covered town.

He could see a train leaving a station, its billowing smoke rising up dark above the white clouds.

No more noise behind him.

He had made it. He could have lied down and rolled around in the fuckin' snow for his happiness.

He carried on.

Leaving the guards and the fear behind, he rushed down the hill and into the streets, and when he located the train station after minutes of confusion for his incomprehension of Czech, he staggered up to the counter, and bought a ticket to Brno.

The town was still.

Asleep.

Christ almighty, falling asleep himself had never been so easy, when he finally boarded the train, wet and cold and scared and exhausted, and when the train lurched forward, he leaned his head against the window, and drifted off.

He was on his way.

Ludwig only needed to wait.

Just wait.

_Wait for me._

* * *

><p>He would have preferred Ivan.<p>

It left a bitter aftertaste to admit it, but God help him, Ludwig would have preferred awaking in the first breaking light of dawn to Ivan running his fingers through his hair and whispering to him.

Not her.

But that was how it happened nonetheless when he stirred back into the realm of consciousness, his sleep feeling long and heavy and completely dreamless, as someone's hands smoothed down his hair, and when he could finally find the strength to open his eyes, he shuddered.

The pale sun could not seem to break through the curtains. The room was dimly lit and the shadows in the corners were disconcerting. A heater blew warm, scorched air into his face. The fingers in his hair were not particularly comforting; one long, fervent stroke through, and then they clenched together and tugged, painfully, and then one long stroke through, and then another clench.

Ivan did not touch him like that.

It took a moment for him to gather his strength. Finally, after minutes, he turned his head, and looked up.

A woman was above him.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pretty face. Long hair. Dark dress. A terrifying air.

Her hands were cold.

She stared at him, and he stared back, and felt a creep of panic. He did not want to be alone with her.

Where was Ivan?

A silent alarm of danger in the back of mind.

Where was Ivan?

A bleary memory of a flash of steel.

_Where_ was Ivan?

A lurch of horror.

Starting, he fell from his side onto his back, and the movement made his head split open and his body ache, and he could only look around desperately for Ivan as she hovered above him.

She was smiling, as her hands continued to tug at his hair.

How had he been left alone with her? When she was more of a danger than the snow outside? How had this lapse in judgment occurred? Ivan had left him alone with _her_? How _could_ he?

"Finally woke up, did you? What a shame."

She knelt on the edge of the bed, long blonde hair falling all around him as she leaned down, and she was staring at him with cool interest, her voice sweet and saccharine.

"Oh well! It can't be helped."

He struggled to remember her name, but that didn't matter because she was _dangerous _and too close and her hands _hurt_, and he dug his heels in the blankets as he tried to push himself backwards. He stopped short when he realized, with another lurch of unspeakable horror, that he could not move his feet.

They were numb. Oh God, could there be a worse time to be immobile?

He tried to move again, and she grabbed his collar with her other hand, crawling on top of him in an attempt to keep him still.

"Calm down. Stop moving. You'll hurt yourself."

He could only stare up a her with dumb terror, and she stared right back at him, and after a moment of silence she spoke again, her smile ever widening.

"Remember anything?"

He did not answer.

Her fingers left his abused hair and fell down to his neck.

"Your pulse is stronger. ...that can't be helped, either. Hey, can you talk? Don't you remember anything? Well, even if you don't, I'm still glad you showed up. That was the first time I've gotten to see Ivan in years."

Now her hands came up to cup his face, and Ludwig was slowly recalling the hours past as his brain came back to life, and shivered beneath her.

She frightened him.

"He never comes just to visit me."

Natalia.

"He's too proud."

Her name was Natalia.

"Ivan. Men are so strange. I don't understand them at all."

And she was rambling.

Her random, disjointed speech was as unnerving as her eyes.

"Isn't that a shame? That a wife should only see her husband every few years."

Wife?

Temples aching and dizzy with nervousness, he met her eyes and said, voice low and weak, "You're not his wife."

And he didn't know _why_ he said it. Why provoke her?

But she was not Ivan's wife.

A quiet hesitation. Her brow came down.

"Ah. You _do _remember."

Not everything. Most of his memories of her were bleary and out of his reach, but he knew enough to matter, the feel of steel and the look of danger, and _how _could Ivan have left him alone with her? Ivan, who always kept him close and promised that he would protect him from the dangers of this land.

Maybe he had dreamt, after all, because this certainly felt like a nightmare.

"How do you feel?"

He didn't answer, as his voice clutched in his throat.

She giggled a bit, as her thumbs ran over his cheekbones in what could have been curiosity, as though she were somehow studying him.

"Can I get you anything, colonel? Ha, colonel. That's right. Would you like some coffee? Vodka? Tea?"

She smiled in a leering way that might have implied that coffee would include small talk, a friendly hug, cream, sugar, and some poison on the side.

He found his voice, and rasped, "No, thank you."

"Well," she said, as she removed her hands from his face, still sitting quite happily atop him, "At least you're polite."

They stared at each other, and she fell back, sitting her weight upon his knees, and he looked over towards the door, helplessly.

God almighty, someone _help_. Oh, _where _was Ivan?

She followed his gaze, and, perhaps sensing his nervousness, scoffed aloud.

"Don't worry. I didn't kill him or anything. He'll be back. He's fetching hot water." She looked over her shoulder, down at his numb feet, and reached back with one hand, grabbing his foot playfully.

He could not feel her hand.

"I would have just let you catch gangrene," she said, as she turned back to him, "But Ivan would seem to prefer that you can walk. Among other things. I'm upset with you, you know. I didn't think you'd pull out of that. I was hoping you'd just go to sleep and slip away before morning. Well, a woman can dream."

Sick with adrenaline and hating the fear in his chest, he tried to smile at her, and managed to mutter, breathlessly, "Sorry to disappoint. I won't try so hard next time."

"I'm afraid there won't be a next time," she said, primly, as she shifted and pulled herself up to her feet, "Ivan never makes the same mistakes twice."

There was a short, stiff silence in which she stared down at him impassively, and then a voice from the doorway said, coolly, "I don't make _mistakes_."

His head snapped to the doorway, and he had _never _been so relieved to see Ivan, as Natalia's bristles lowered in his presence. Not ever. Oh, what a relief.

Ivan stood in the frame, and in his hands he held a pot of steaming water, and he was staring Natalia down with an exceedingly intimidating glare that Ludwig was thankful had never been used on _him_.

"Out."

She seemed unfazed by Ivan's silent threats, and as she took her leave, she walked smoothly and surely, and when she passed, she reached out and brushed her fingers down Ivan's cheek, doing so only because his hands were otherwise occupied, crooning softly in Russian.

Ivan jerked back from her touch as though burned when her fingers fell to his neck, sloshing water onto the floor as he shuddered, and now Ludwig bristled too, at her audacity.

At her fearlessness. At her _presumptuousness_.

...she was not Ivan's wife.

Crazy.

One final clench of her fingers within his collar, and then she popped up on her toes and kissed Ivan upon his cheek. Ivan pulled back from her, the look upon his face absolutely terrifying as he hissed at her under his breath.

She just smiled, and then she was gone, and Ivan watched her go, still and silent, and when she was out of sight, he turned his head and took a step forward.

He met Ludwig's eyes, and smiled, his withering glare gone as swiftly as it had come.

"Awake? How are you feeling?"

Ludwig did not respond, watching the doorframe, just to make sure that she was _really _gone, because he did not trust her.

He was afraid of her. It hurt a little to admit.

Ivan looked at him, and then back at the door, and then he snorted, and said, as he came forward and set the pot on the floor, "Don't worry about her. She knows better than to hurt you. She's crazy, but she's not stupid. Don't worry! No one touches you while I'm around."

Ivan's words were sure and comforting, but they did not hide the fact that he had seen, with his own eyes, that shiver of _something _that ran through Ivan whenever Natalia was near, and he suspected that Ivan was just as afraid of her as he was.

A strange thing they could share.

"Can you move?"

Digging his elbows into the blankets, Ludwig pushed himself up, ignoring the dizziness in his head, and Ivan seemed pleased at his movements.

Ivan always smiled.

"You're doing much better! I was worried, for a moment. I'm glad you're okay."

He shrugged a shoulder, reluctant to speak, not knowing exactly what to say, and then Ivan knelt down onto the floor, hovering above the pot of water. The rising steam gave away its heat.

"Here," Ivan coaxed, and held out his hands, "Give me your feet. Can you feel them?"

He shook his head, and it was with a furrowed brow of concentration that he swung his legs as best he could over towards the edge. The muscles in his thighs were sore, but he forced them to move nonetheless, and when he had flung them over far enough, Ivan shoved the blanket off and grabbed his ankles, rolling up the hems of his pants.

He looked straight ahead at the wall, ignoring the flush on his cheeks as Ivan poked over his feet, eyes calm and attentive, and then set them down in the steaming water.

How humiliating.

A burst of pain.

The water stung above his ankles, where he could feel, and it was almost too hot to bear. But Ivan's hands would not let him move, and he looked up, although Ludwig refused to meet his eyes.

"Hey, don't worry. They are numb, now, but they'll start waking up in a little bit. Once the nerves warm up. It will hurt though, for a few hours. But, hey," he added, and ghosted warm fingers up to his knee, "That won't be a problem for you, will it?"

He looked down, despite himself, and the heat on his face was becoming unbearable as Ivan's fingers crept upward, and their eyes met.

Ivan was still smiling.

God, did he always have to _touch_? Couldn't he just sit there? Always touching.

A silence, and he was relieved when Ivan's hand stopped halfway between his knee and his hip.

Ivan said, gently, "See what you made me do? Oh, your poor feet. Hey, I was really worried, you know! I thought I was going to lose you there for a minute. I didn't mean to get so angry with you, but you made me do it. It was not so right of you, to run out on me like that. But it's alright! I forgive you, so you shouldn't be angry with me, either. Let's just put it behind us, yeah? Don't be mad."

Mindlessly, stupidly, he said, automatically and without thinking, "I'm not angry."

He wasn't angry, it was true, but he had not necessarily wanted Ivan to know that. He had lost some kind of edge, however small it may have been, by letting Ivan know that there was no animosity to overcome.

He was far too tired to be angry. Just too damn tired. Being angry took too much effort. Too much thought and strength that he didn't have.

...Ivan forgave him?

What, then, the whole thing had been _his _fault? _He _had been the one who had been in the wrong? By trying to escape a wintry prison? If so, then Ivan's hypothermic punishment had been justified, maybe, because he had tried to back out of a deal.

A deal.

Contracts couldn't be broken. Maybe he had been in the wrong.

That little alarm in the back of his mind was screaming at him that of course it was not _his _fault, and that he had done _nothing _which needed forgiving, that Ivan was to blame for everything, but God help him he was _so _tired, and so far, no permanent harm had come upon him.

So far.

Damn, how his head _hurt_.

And maybe he should accept a little of the blame, too, because he had been the one who had run off in the first place. It had been his decision. Ivan had left the choice to him. He had chosen this. It was too late to back out.

He tried to imagine how Ivan had felt, when he had awoken alone in bed, reaching out and feeling only air where there was supposed to be warmth, and maybe he had felt betrayed and hurt, since he had made an effort to protect, and he had pulled the trigger for _him_—

God.

Horrified, he shook his head to clear it, and Christ almighty, that was possibly the stupidest notion he had engaged in years, because he did not _want _to imagine what _Ivan _felt, and _none_ of this was his fault.

It wasn't his fault. He was not sure why he needed to repeat it so many times.

His feet were starting to sting.

Maybe because Ivan's soft words were so sure. Ivan sounded confident that _he _was blameless, and Ivan had said so himself, hadn't he?

_I don't make mistakes._

Ivan was infallible.

Damn. He was confused. The night had taken a toll on him. He couldn't think.

"You don't look so well," Ivan suddenly murmured from below, and he could only shake his head, avoiding the Russian's eyes.

Maybe his mind was still cloudy from his second brush with death. He felt horrible.

"Can you move your toes yet?"

He looked down, dumbly, at his red feet below the water, and narrowed his eyes as he focused to clench his toes. They bent, slowly and awkwardly, and now the stinging was becoming a sharp throbbing, and he clenched his jaw at the pain.

Ivan watched, as he struggled to regain control of his digits, and then patted his knee.

"That's good! Keep moving them. Tell me if something hurts, okay, because maybe there's a blood clot somewhere. See, I knew it would be easy for you!"

He furrowed his brow, and continued to flex his toes against the pain, if only because it was better than thinking about things that only ended up confusing him in the end, and because Ivan was urging him on.

"I knew you could do it."

...maybe it wasn't so bad.

"You're very brave." Ivan's hand was warm and heavy upon his leg. "This is nothing for you, huh?" Fingertips massaging his skin, and Ivan's constant croons of admiration and words of endearment were starting to slowly wear him down. "You can do anything, can't you? You remind me of myself!"

And not necessarily in a bad way.

Ivan pulled himself up onto the bed, sitting next to him, and then suddenly Ivan's hand was up and running through his messy hair with gentleness.

Not like her's had.

"Look at you! You're always so handsome, even when you just wake up. You must have had lots of friends. I don't think I've ever seen anyone as good-looking as you."

Maybe it wasn't so bad...

He'd never had friends, except for Alfred. Let Ivan think he had been popular. The words were nice.

"I wish that there were flowers around here, so that I could maybe find you some. But it's so cold here, nothing really grows well, even in summer. But I'll find something pretty for you, for Christmas! It's so soon! What would you like? Mm?" His voice was eager, and amicable, shoulders loose and relaxed, like they really _were _just old friends, exchanging Christmas lists, "Huh? You can tell me! I'd get you anything you wanted. Well? Everyone likes getting things for Christmas."

A gentle nudge in his side, and he felt a twitch on the corner of his lips, a strange sensation that he had not felt for years now, and for a peculiar, exhilarating moment, he started to smile, and Ivan's hands felt _so_ much better in his hair than Natalia's had.

He had not smiled, not really, in so long...

He had not heard mindless praise in years, either. Christmas had been forgotten for a long time.

He suppressed his half-formed smile harshly and efficiently when Ivan looked up and arched a brow, and he was mortified at himself. The hell was wrong with him? He was out in space.

But it was too little, too late, because Ivan had seen, and now he was leaning in, eagerly.

"You should smile more! I would have you smile, just once."

He bowed his head, and even though he would have liked to ask, petulantly, 'What is there to smile about?' he did not, because he would rather not antagonize Ivan when he was in a good mood.

"Well, I'll make you smile! Don't worry, I know you got scared last night, but things will be better once we get back home. I'll take you on a trip somewhere, if you'd like. Where would you like to go?"

He opened his mouth, and nearly said, 'Berlin, please!', but Ivan was watching him so intently that he lost his nerve, and finally managed to mutter, "I don't care."

Ivan's smile never fell.

"Do you like traveling? I do! I love going places, but sometimes I can't go very far because the military doesn't allow it. Some countries won't even allow me in, just because of my rank, isn't that terrible? I had had a wonderful trip planned once, across the United States and then down to Mexico, but it was canceled, you see, because hostilities—is that word right?—were so high. I had wanted to go somewhere warm."

For a moment, his eyes darkened, and his hand on Ludwig's arm tightened, painfully, but it passed quickly and Ivan was cheery again.

Shadows.

"Well, no matter, I think I'll go down to Argentina one of these days. Would you like to go there? I tell you what, once we get back home, I'll let you choose! I have a big map in my office. Anywhere you want to go, assuming it's possible, of course."

He had always longed to travel, but he had never imagined he would do it with Ivan.

"You don't talk a lot, huh? That's okay. You just need to get to know me a little better, I guess. Once you settle in, everything will be great!"

Great. Would anything ever be great again? ...had anything ever really been that _great _before? Not really.

Why pretend?

Ivan leaned into his side, and when the sharp pains in his feet dulled down into a slow throb, he took them out of the water, and tried to stand up. He succeeded, however wobbly, and Ivan's hand was looped in his belt, as though worried he would fall.

"Good job! You did that faster than I thought. Come on, let's get going."

Good. The sooner they got out of Natalia's house, the better.

He sat back on the bed, pulling on his socks and boots, and when Ivan led him towards the door (which still hung haphazardly from its hinges) and they passed the threshold, Natalia was waiting in the living room, hands clasped politely, blocking the front door.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked, head tilted sweetly, and Ivan only stood before her, waiting irritably for her to move so they could pass.

But she stood there.

"Why don't you stay?"

Her eyes passed over each of them, hair neat and pretty.

"I could use some company."

He felt himself leaning in towards Ivan subconsciously.

She smiled at Ivan, and then her eyes fell on him in a moment of intensity, and he could feel the hair on his arms raising up in fright.

He shuddered.

"Have a safe trip," she whispered, voice ghostly and low, and for a terrible moment, he found himself frozen under her terrifying eyes. Because they were swirling again, and they were _promising _him that this was not the last time they would meet, nor the last time she would hold his fate in her hands, nor the last time that she would strive to take Ivan for her own, nor the last time that she would try to take his _life_—

Ivan reached down, and took his hand within his own, and gripped.

The spell was broken.

She stepped aside. They passed.

Ivan opened the door, and was pulling him through—

"If you ever get bored with Mirny, you can come back down here and visit me sometime, okay?" she suddenly said from behind, her sugary voice laden with a dangerous edge, and as he looked over his shoulder at her he was _glad_, for once, that Ivan was gripping his hand.

He passed through, and Ivan slammed the door shut so hard that it rattled in its frame. He would never have guessed that he and Ivan would share a mutual fear, and he would have guessed even less that, for their respectable heights and builds and virility, their mutual fear would be of a _woman_.

Shameful, maybe, but goddamn. She was fear incarnate.

Ivan's hand was still firm around his own, and that was alright for now, and it was only his fear of Natalia that led him to grip Ivan's hand in return.

He wanted to _go_.

Ivan's smile was showing his teeth again, a wolf sensing weakness, no doubt, but he would take the wolf over the viper any day, and then Ivan took his huge coat off, and threw it over his shoulders.

He accepted it, and looked around, expecting to see Toris waiting in the car, but there was no one in the street. Ivan saw his eyes searching this way and that, and he said, as he began to tug him along, "It's so close, we'll just walk. It will be good for you, to walk. It will wake your feet up more."

Dammit.

He didn't _want_ to walk, because it was uncomfortable, and it was cold as hell, as the morning's pale light shone over the white town, gleaming on the roofs and making the snow glitter. The sky was clouded, and a mist hung above, and as they walked, side by side, he realized how cold his head was, and looked up at Ivan, whose pale hair gleamed as white as the snow in the light.

Absurdly, he said, lowly, "Sorry. I lost your hat."

Ivan looked down at him, and only smiled.

"Don't worry about it. I've got another one. A prettier one."

He stared at the sidewalk, concentrating on his feet and where he put his boots, and when he finally looked up, he realized the great hotel was before him, towering against the skyline.

The black cars shined in the courtyard.

The courtyard, that had seemed like such salvation only several hours earlier. The night had gone so horribly wrong. No matter where he was now, he was glad it was over.

But the thought of seeing those people again, after what had been done...

He didn't want to go back there, but Ivan was quick to assure, "We're just going to get the car, and I must thank everyone for coming. Then we'll go. I promise."

He furrowed his brow as they approached ever closer, and when he could see the Soviet military looming here and there, bidding each other farewell and trading off the last of their cigars and vodka, he felt a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, and tugged his hand out of Ivan's quickly.

Christ, he did not want them to see. He'd die of mortification.

Ivan stared down at him, for a moment, but then snorted, and waved a hand in the air. "You embarrass so easily! Look, how red your cheeks are. I don't know why. Well. That's alright, you look pretty when you blush."

Mortified, he reached up and buried his face in his hand, and slowed his pace until he was walking behind Ivan, rather than at his side.

He had prided himself on being strong and unmovable, that one guy who had never gone out to parties and never dated, and who never _blushed_, but Ivan seemed to have a hidden talent for making him feel absolutely foolish.

Like a kid. For humiliating him without even trying. He hated people like that.

They stopped before a car, inside of which he could see Toris before the steering wheel, and Ivan opened the door and pulled out a white ushanka, pulling it down on his head as he smoothed out his uniform, straightening everything until he was a model of neatness. When he was finished, he carried on, and even though Ludwig longed to join Toris inside the warm car, he did not dare get in when Ivan expected him not to.

Ivan had not said, 'Sit down'.

So he didn't.

Maybe this was just another one of _those _moments, because surely it wasn't _necessary _for Ivan to return and tell them all goodbye? Did he _really _have to shake all of their hands, as Ludwig trailed behind him like a dog, brow furrowed and cheeks red and eyes firmly on the pavement, wobbling this way and that as his numb toes came slowly back to life? Was it necessary for Ivan to direct everyone over towards _him_, so that they could shake his hand, too?

It wasn't a necessity. It was a bonus. Despite it all, it wasn't as bad as the first time.

At least this time he did not have to deal with their knowing leers, and most of them were too hung-over to even raise their eyes in the pale sunlight, and with Ivan's huge coat thrown over his shoulders, he at least felt less exposed. Loose, weak handshakes, mumbled farewells in various languages as they winced and paled, and Ludwig could only hope that they all threw up on their leather seats the whole way home.

Every so often, Ivan would look back at him, beaming. Maybe he was checking that Ludwig was still following him.

He would rather follow Ivan from behind than be held up inescapably at his side.

Ivan walked tall and straight ahead, and it occurred to him (with a pang of nausea) that no one even seemed to remember that, only the night before, Ivan had snuck up into a hotel room that was not his and had pulled out a gun.

Or maybe they admired him all the more for it. Maybe this had happened before.

God.

The crowd was thinning.

...was her body still up there?

He shuddered.

Minutes passed, and finally, mercifully, there was no one else standing before them, and Ivan turned back to him with a smile. "They all asked about you, you know," he began, proudly, and Ludwig could only look up at him, struggling to keep his balance, "They're curious about you."

Curious about _what_? Did he want to know?

Maybe he didn't, but Ivan seemed pleased and in a continued good mood nonetheless, and he kept his mouth shut, because things seemed to go awry when he opened it.

Turning on his heel, well-groomed and hands clasped behind his back, Ivan started off towards the car, where Toris (the lucky son of a bitch) was waiting, and he trailed dumbly behind, pulling Ivan's coat around himself and avoiding raising his eyes up to the hotel windows.

Did Ivan tip the staff extra to bleach blood out of the carpet? Did he have a well out in the forest somewhere? Did he have people who he bought in the government, who erased papers and birth certificates clean away? Jesus, did normal people ever _ask _themselves these kinds of questions?

The car was in sight. He could see the exhaust floating up in the freezing air.

Toris always left him to Ivan's whim.

Ivan's boots clicked on the pavement.

He panted to catch his breath, the effort of walking for so long proving a bit much for his stressed body.

Ivan's pale hair shone bright against the collar of his uniform.

His toes were stinging.

Ivan's white ushanka gleamed in the light.

He was tired of walking.

The sky was white, too.

He was tired of everything.

Everything was still.

He wanted to sit down, and go to sleep.

Snow drifted down from the bare trees. The horizon was misty.

Silence.

This frozen place was quiet in the early morning. Ice crystals hung everywhere. The air was cold and clean.

His nose was numb.

And then someone started _screaming_.

He and Ivan looked over at the same time, and his heart jolted with adrenaline and something else that he could not quite put his finger on, because there, standing at the edge of the courtyard, eyes bloodshot and voice thick and absolutely hysterical, was the officer whose wife Ivan had murdered.

That man.

Two men stood on either side of him, grabbing handfuls of his coat as he pointed at Ivan and shrieked, and even though Ludwig could not understand him, he got the message loud and clear.

Murderer.

Assassin.

_Traitor_.

Dizzy with nervousness, he looked over at Ivan, and some part of him expected Ivan to shoot the man right then and there, too, because surely no one insulted Ivan in front of everyone and got away with it.

But Ivan only acknowledged him with a tilt of his head, smiling, and carried on, completely unfazed.

Ludwig stood still, taken aback as the officer wrenched free of the men restraining him and took two wide steps after Ivan, and for an absurd, ridiculous moment, he opened his mouth to tell Ivan to be _careful_.

He stopped short before the words left. He was horrified at himself.

Why would he do such a thing? If the officer were to attack Ivan, shoot him, maybe, then that would be all the better for him.

If Ivan were to suddenly die...

His contract would be broken.

He clamped his jaw, furrowed his brow, and only watched.

And yet...

Even as the officer took another step, shaking terribly and not from the cold, Ludwig _remembered _him. He remembered being goaded and hissed at. He remembered being insulted. Affronted. Offended. He remembered the burn of vodka in his eyes, the degradation of being spat before.

And even though the man was on the verge of tears, bruised and bloody and beaten, and even though his wedding ring caught the light in a mocking reminder that he was now a widower, and even though Ivan had stolen his entire life from him, Ludwig could not help the strange aggression in his chest.

He hated Ivan.

But he hated that man more.

He hated himself, too, for _thinking _it, but no amount of denial would change the fact that he _wanted _Ivan to shoot the officer.

God.

What was happening to him? He had never thought such terrible things before this.

He was _so _frustrated. He could not handle this stress, and Christ almighty, he would have given anything just to be able to go back in time and get a hold of the Valium again. Why had he not brought that last bottle with him?

He had left it behind.

The aggression was surely just a side effect of stress. Wasn't it? Stress did horrible things to a mind.

He knew that well.

The officer's shirt was stained with blood; no doubt as he had cradled his dead wife to his chest when he had gone up to their room and found her there on the floor. What was done was done. Nothing could change it.

A sudden movement caught his attention; the officer had stopped screaming, silent danger, and after a moment of hesitation he lunged forward, and his hand flew down to the gun in its holster. A flash of steel in the hidden sun, and Ludwig felt himself freeze up, hands clenched at his sides.

Something within him that he couldn't place.

Ivan did not see the gun.

_You can depend on me._

Ivan. That son of a bitch.

_I'd do anything for you._

Ivan had protected him from Natalia.

_I was really worried!_

Ivan's hand had been firm around his own. Ivan, who claimed to be responsible and to always take care of things. He'd only ever wanted someone who kept their promises. Someone who did what they said they would so. Someone he could rely on.

So far, Ivan had done everything he said he would.

Ivan had come looking for him for hours in the vast forests of Brno. Ivan had saved his life the night before. Ivan had kept Natalia at bay. And Ivan had made sure that the officer's actions had consequences.

He was so tired of being the responsible one, the one to take care of others, the one who had to be seen as the 'stick in the mud', the one who had to be so mature far too soon, the one who never smiled...

The stern, boring one.

Gilbert had made him that way.

So many years of recklessness. So many years of stress. Broken promises and fights. Being let down.

He was tired.

He just wanted someone who would look out for him, like he looked out for everyone else. Not such a grand thing. That was all he wanted.

Ivan had come back for him.

A gleam.

The officer's finger raised up to the hammer to pull it back, and before he knew what he was doing Ludwig had come back to earth, braced his feet, and shouted, "Watch out!"

It came out before he could stop it.

Ivan froze in his tracks, too, at his cry, but Ludwig doubted that it was in fear, and then he turned, slowly and deliberately, meeting the officer's eyes with a nerve-wracking tranquility. Ludwig stood behind them, immobile and heart racing.

The officer stopped dead where he was, his finger freezing right above the trigger of the gun, and there was a terrible silence.

Ivan was smiling. Did nothing frighten him? His eyes were cool and calm. Did nothing move him?

Ivan was unshakeable.

The officer fell still, his shoulders slumped, the gun dropped, and he hung his head, his bravery washed away under the tide of Ivan's eyes. He fell to his knees on the frozen pavement, clenched his fists, and pressed his forehead into the ground.

He began to cry.

Ivan observed him for a moment, thoughtfully, and then turned around, arms still tucked neatly behind his back, and he walked on as though nothing had happened. After a second of speechless amazement, Ludwig found his feet and could only follow behind, brushing past the officer as he went.

No one else spoke.

When he reached the car, Ivan waiting patiently for him, Ludwig looked back over his shoulder at the sobbing, broken man behind, gun clenched in his hand and whispering to no one as he knelt there on the ground. Others came up to him. Someone hauled him to his feet.

And what scared Ludwig the most was that he felt _nothing_.

No pity. No remorse. Because he had brought it upon himself.

His head hurt.

It wasn't _his _fault; he had not asked Ivan to do what he had done. He hadn't wanted that, no, and it wasn't his fault. Ivan had said so, hadn't he? It wasn't his fault.

Ivan held open the door, and as he climbed in, his head began to throb more than ever. Ivan climbed in next to him, tapped Toris on the shoulder, and then they were moving.

And not a minute too soon, because being here, in this situation, in this environment, was bringing out terrible things within him that he had never even known were there in the first place.

Ivan reached down, and clenched his hand.

Because never before would he have thought that someone deserved _that_.

Not that.

No pity? No remorse? Who was he?

_You're Ludwig!_

He wasn't so sure anymore. There was no one here to remind him who he was.

Erzsébet wasn't here to tell him to treat others as he himself would like to be treated.

Alfred wasn't here to tell him that the only thing to fear was fear itself.

Roderich wasn't here to tell him that pride came before the fall.

And Gilbert wasn't here to tell him that life was too short to spend it hating and getting even.

Ivan did not live by those rules. Maybe he wouldn't, either, not anymore.

Then again, neither had _they_, he reminded himself with a pang of what could have been bitterness.

Because, for all of their talk and lectures...

Erzsébet did not always treat everyone quite like how _she _would like to be, and Alfred got frightened too, and Roderich was as proud as anyone he had ever known, and Gilbert had told him that just because _he _had spend his whole life in hectic whirlwinds of revenge.

They were all hypocrites.

He gripped Ivan's hand without realizing it.

Why couldn't he be one, too?

How many times had Erzsébet lost her temper with the embassy secretaries? How many times had Alfred backed out of mischievous adventures because he was terrified of German police? How many photographs had Roderich posed for? And how many nights had Gilbert spent in jail, battered and bloodied?

Would they begrudge him one arrogant Soviet fool? Ivan wouldn't, obviously, and suddenly he had leaned in, breath warm upon his neck.

"Hey."

Ludwig looked up, startled, and Ivan was far too close for comfort, smiling serenely. "Were you worried? What, you thought he would shoot me?"

He felt a horrible flush of red upon his cheeks, and regretted immediately that he had ever cried out to Ivan in the first place.

Now Ivan would think...

"You were scared for me! See? We're getting along so well!"

This was the _last_ thing he wanted.

Fuck. Why couldn't he ever keep his fuckin' mouth shut?

"I knew you liked me, even if you won't say it! See? We can be friends!"

He turned his head to the window, and watched the snowy trees creep by, and Ivan was creeping too, closer and closer.

He was starting to _hate _car rides.

Ivan fell still once he was firmly against his side, taking no further unwanted action, and Ludwig could only breathe a sigh of relief and rest his chin in his palm. Their hands were still intertwined between them.

His feet were throbbing painfully, more uncomfortable than Ivan's heavy warmth, and he looked up, and realized it had started to snow.

Hours passed.

Boredom.

Toris drove slowly. Carefully.

He tried to rid the memory of that hotel from his mind. He couldn't.

And then, restless and anxious, he turned his eyes to the front and opened his mouth.

Even though he knew he should not have.

"Your father went crazy," he suddenly whispered, mindlessly, and he did not know _why _he said it, because he could not think straight off where he had heard it, or if he even had.

What an idiot he was sometimes.

This silence was killing him.

Too much time to think. He didn't want to think right now.

For a moment, there was a terrible, suffocating silence, in which Toris sent him a look of horror in the rear view mirror, and then Ivan's eyes snapped up and he pulled his hand out of Ludwig's and reached out, grabbing up his collar and pulling him in so close that he could feel Ivan's breath moving his hair.

"Who told you that?" he asked, fervently, and Ludwig, caught under his stormy gaze, could only shrug helplessly.

Why, oh _why _had he opened his mouth?

"Who _told _you that?" Ivan asked again, and shook him gently, adding, "Did _she_? She did, didn't she?"

She? Natalia.

Then he could hear her wrathful shriek in his ears, as clear as a bell, and his brain lit up.

"Yeah," he finally said, as Ivan shook him again, "She told me. She told me all about you two."

Toris' grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Ivan only stared at him for a moment, eyes churning, and then he scoffed and released his collar, and leaned back into the seat. Crossing his arms above his chest, he stared ahead with a furrowed brow, and then finally he said, voice low, "Didn't you know? I'm her favorite topic. She tells everyone she can about _that_."

"I noticed," Ludwig managed, weakly, rubbing absently at his collar.

A short silence.

"Did she tell you that I called off the wedding?"

He nodded.

"And she told you about her father?"

He nodded.

"Her father was a wonderful man. He did much for me. But she was too much."

Toris gripped the wheel so tightly that it creaked beneath his gloves.

"If you think badly of me, don't. I assure you, she was crazy _long _before I broke our engagement. I told her all along that I didn't love her. She knew. She was always crazy."

Well, he certainly believed that.

Ivan said nothing more, ducked his head down, and stared ahead, eyes narrow and dark.

Ludwig sat still for a moment, heart racing and knowing full-well that he had just skated over very thin ice, and then he wondered, briefly, why Ivan had not just gone through with the marriage. After all, didn't crazy attract crazy? Whatever could be said about Natalia, Ivan was not much more stable.

Another hypocrite.

And he wondered, too, why Ivan had evaded successfully the mention of his father. He was not so foolish as to pursue the matter, and fell still.

Ivan's good mood was withering. His smile was gone.

Toris tapped his fingers anxiously on the wheel as he drove.

...why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

Turning back to the trees, he tried to take his mind off of things, and it did not take long before he realized that it was impossible. Because, in its own way, the ride back to Mirny was even _worse _than the journey out of it had been. At least the last time, he had had some kind of resilience to hold on to, the faintest of hope that maybe, maybe, he would still have a chance to get out of this somehow.

But now as he sat here, tucked into Ivan's side and watching the trees, there was no hope.

Only quiet resignation.

He would have to accept that Berlin was no longer his home.

His home was Mirny. His home was Siberia. His home was Russia.

His home was with Ivan.

Not with Gilbert.

Because he had made a deal. He was bound to it. A martyr, destined to live out the rest of his life in misery to keep those he had loved safe.

Everything was silent. Ivan was still brooding.

Hours later, halfway down the road and feeling agitated, he reached into his waistline, and groped around for the knife that he had taken from Natalia in their delirious struggle. Ivan had not discovered it, which was a surprising miracle, for all the groping he had done, but...

Why bother keeping it?

Having it at his disposal was only a terrible temptation, a possibility for an escape that he could no longer afford to attempt, and even if he did have an opportunity to use it, he was not certain that he could bring it down on Ivan, who was always watching him, and he would probably freeze up under those stormy eyes just as the officer had.

Disaster.

He found the handle and pulled it out, and it was with a pang of defeat that he looked over and caught Ivan's gaze, and then he reached out and placed the knife on Ivan's lap, snipping, "Here."

Ivan looked down at it, and when he looked back up, he was smiling again. And that was almost a relief. He would rather that Ivan smiled.

He was terrifying when he brooded.

"How'd you sneak that by me?" he asked, cheerily, and he grabbed the knife up and tucked it away in his coat, and Ludwig was caught under his intense eyes.

"I wasn't trying to," he finally muttered, irritably, "I forgot about it." Ivan's smile widened, and he reached out, tossing an arm over Ludwig's shoulders amicably, his good mood back with full force.

Ivan's mood swings were...unnerving. Unpredictable.

He did not like unpredictability.

"That's why, then! If you had tried to, then you would have been nervous, and I would have known something was up! A happy coincidence, then."

Happy.

Suddenly, Ivan leaned in and whispered, "Can I put my arm here?"

Ludwig scoffed, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"It's already there."

"So it is."

He fell silent, and pulled Ludwig firmly into his side, and Ludwig could only bow his head and furrow his brow, feeling absolutely ridiculous as Ivan pressed their heads together. He raised his eyes, and when he could see them in the rearview mirror, his shame intensified.

They looked like two goddamn teenagers in the back of a movie theatre, seeing a horror movie, no doubt, and this was the part where Ludwig got scared by something he saw and Ivan used the old 'I've-got-to-yawn!' trick and managed to slip an arm over his shoulders, and now there was no getting out of it, and soon Ivan would get closer and closer. The movie would be forgotten in a haze of passion, the people getting murdered on screen would scream in vain as they lip-locked in the back until the ushers came and tossed them out, and then Ivan would walk him home and stand in front of the door until he finally invited him inside—

_Let me in._

—and then he would sneak Ivan through the door and try to pull him up the stairs before his parents could see him, and then they would spend the whole night in his bedroom, until his parents came knocking, and then Ivan would leap out of the window to avoid detection, but he would promise to call the next day—

He giggled at the absurdity of it, and at how strange his thoughts were becoming, and Ivan sent him an odd look out of the corner of his eye as he tittered to himself.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Ivan seemed to have a knack for making him feel ridiculous.

His exhilarated giggles died quickly down, because he realized that if he and Ivan _were _teenagers, then Ivan would take him out to a movie, alright, but he would not wait to be invited in later, and he would drag Ludwig upstairs, and if Ludwig's parents, had he had any, had interrupted, then Ivan probably would have pulled out a gun and shot them right there.

...and that was _not _normal.

His headache was back. His toes were still stinging.

Ivan forced him in closer until he had no choice but to rest his head on Ivan's broad shoulder, a heavy forearm across his chest.

He and Gilbert had lain like this before, and so had he and Erzsébet. Roderich had slung an arm around his shoulders and let him sleep on his chest when he was younger and they were all alone. Alfred had sometimes looped an arm within his own when they sat together on the couch.

Maybe everyone did this, at some point or another. So maybe it wasn't so bad, to lie like this with Ivan.

And he nearly burst into giggles again, because Natalia would _kill_, literally, to lie like this with Ivan, and yet _he _was so nervous that he was afraid he would get sick.

Strange. Well, one man's trash, etc.

Ivan held him so tightly that his chest hurt. He was tired.

The road was long and slow, and sometimes Toris would look up and catch his eye in the mirror, and the worry there barely broke through the weary fog.

He wanted to go to sleep.

Toris sighed, tiredly.

He wondered suddenly, as Ivan's head began to bob as he started to fall asleep, how Ivan had ever plucked up Toris in the first place.

He would ask.

One of these days.

Exhausted and drained, he leaned against Ivan, and fell asleep.

It wasn't so bad.

...it was getting harder to hear Gilbert's voice against the static.

He was so _tired_.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

It wouldn't stop bleeding.

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon and cut through the white clouds as the train chugged along, Gilbert could only clutch his arm to his chest, keeping it wrapped up firmly in his coat, and the deep gash from the razor wire that he had swum through just wouldn't stop bleeding.

The sleeve of his coat was soaked through with blood, and the dark red was visible even against the black-grey of the fabric. Thank God that the train car was empty, save for himself and one old woman asleep in the very back, because otherwise he would have attracted unwanted attention.

The blood was dripping down onto his pant leg. No matter how hard he pressed, it just wouldn't stop.

But he couldn't stop, either, and when the train lurched to a halt in the heart of Brno, he darted out as quick as he could, passing into the streets and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. For a moment, he only found himself walking around in circles, not knowing what to do.

The snow had stopped falling. The streets were glittering like diamonds in the rising sun.

Where did he go? What clues was he supposed to find here? How could he possibly find out where the Russian had whisked Ludwig off to? Christ, where did he even start? Just grab people on the street and shout, '_Ivan Braginsky_!' over and over again until he found someone who would point him in the right direction?

What if ran into the wrong people?

Someone like _that _had to have spies all over the place, and he was still in the middle of the Eastern Bloc, and no one here could be trusted...

He ambled the streets aimlessly, holding his arm as tightly as he could, and he looked this way and that as he went, hoping against hope that he would just find _something_.

The stores and buildings were just waking up, and the frosted glass made the lights from within shine out bleary and pale. He was dizzy, and sore, and mercilessly tired, but he still he walked on, and people passed him as he staggered forward, sending him looks of alarm and fright.

He must have looked ghastly. It didn't matter.

Someone before him suddenly stopped, and he paused in his tracks to avoid running into them. Weakly, he looked up, and there was a man standing before him, brow low and eyes worried, and he reached out, placing a hand on Gilbert's shoulder tentatively as he asked, "_Co...co je vám_?"

Dumbly, he stared at him, and finally shook his head, grunting, "Sorry, I don't understand you."

A moment of hesitation, and then Gilbert broke free of his grasp and pushed forward, and maybe the man had had good intentions, but he didn't need the kind of help that the man thought.

His head was starting to spin, and it was starting to become difficult to breathe, and his heart was racing with the effort of just walking, and then he looked over to the left, and saw behind a panel of glass a huge shelf of old books.

A library.

That was as good a place to start as any.

He lurched across the street and pushed through the door, and even though the woman at the counter looked up and froze when she saw his disheveled appearance, he didn't pause to acknowledge her.

He passed shelves and shelves of colorful books, the air around him warm and musty and comforting, and he went around corner after corner, and when he finally found what he sought, he slowed his pace, and sighed.

A quiet, darkened corner, solitary and uninhabited, and upon its many shelves were enormous bindings, countless years of newspaper articles and town records wrapped up in neat succession. The light was low and yellow, and off to the side sat a great, clunky copying machine.

He searched through the shelves, looking through the years, but there were so _many_.

He reached up, snatching the bindings down as quickly as he could, reluctant to take pressure off of his bleeding arm for too long, and it was with effort that he hauled them over and sat them on the table.

He took whatever years would seem relevant. The Russian was his age, or just about, and he took down '59, '60, '61, anything he could find, until '65, and he tossed them all down on the table. And by the time he had them all, the table was buried, each binding at least six inches thick, and as he sat down before them, he was momentarily overwhelmed.

There were just so many pages...

He _hated _books.

And he didn't even really know what he was looking for.

He couldn't read Czech anyway.

But, he leaned forward and flipped open the first book nonetheless, and as the newspaper articles of years passed flew before his eyes, he scanned every photo, every headline.

Page after page.

The minutes ticked by.

The paper was musty and warm.

Hours.

'59 went by, slowly, without incident.

Nothing.

He started on the next, and now his eyelids were getting heavy.

The cushioned chair was comfortable beneath him.

Time passed.

The sun was rising ever higher outside.

The black and white photos started blurring together.

The heater above was warm.

The letters were blurring too.

'60 passed, and nothing.

Lethargically, he reached out and grabbed up the other, and by now the edge of his vision was black, and he had made it only halfway through the massive tome when he was overwhelmed with the desire to rest his eyes.

Just for a moment.

He was hardly even looking at the pages as he turned them.

God, if he could just sleep, for only a minute...

He was exhausted.

The musty book beneath him, he flipped another page, mindlessly, and the warm air of the library was dragging him down. His head slipped, lower and lower, and finally his nose was touching the cool paper beneath, and he nodded off.

Everything got colder.

_Don't! Go home!_

His head was starting to throb. The air was thin.

He thought he felt something dripping down from above.

_Ludwig!_

Something always felt so wrong, even though he couldn't put his finger on it.

Nothing was like it should be. Everything was wrong.

A cold steel all around.

A snap.

Something was wrong with Ludwig.

_Welcome to hell._

Starting awake so hard that he nearly knocked his chair backwards when he bolted upright, he looked around in a horrible panic, adrenaline lurching through his veins as his heart raced in his chest, and oh God, he could _swear _that someone had been whispering in his ear...

A hand in his hair.

But as he looked this way and that, there was no one standing beside him, and when he looked down, there were no shackles on the chair.

He fell back, a cold sweat on his brow, and raised his hands above his eyes, wearily.

He realized his hands were trembling.

He could not handle this. It was all too much. He was not cut out for this.

Brave rescues like this should have only been attempted by brave people, like Ludwig.

But, oh God, Ludwig...

Ludwig was in trouble. Ludwig wasn't here to fix things, like he had been before.

What if someone was whispering to Ludwig right now? What was _he _saying? Ludwig, so brave and bold...

How long would he last? Was he locked up somewhere? Alone?

Ludwig, who had always loved walking outside and reading, was not meant for an iron cell.

Ludwig loved the forest. He couldn't bear the thought of his little brother stuck in the middle of some frozen world, unable to let his feet wander.

He couldn't stop.

Exhaling to gather himself, he lowered his hands, and turned his eyes back to the book before him.

He couldn't sleep.

The page came into focus.

And when he saw the photo, really saw it, he felt another cold lurch of dread.

A shock.

He squinted his eyes to be sure.

There he was.

Him.

A black and white newspaper article from '61, the year the wall had been conceived, and _he _was standing there, tall and smiling, hands behind his back, encircled by other Soviet military as they stood before the great clock tower in Prague.

He could not understand the headline, but it didn't matter.

It was _him_.

He ripped the huge book up and hauled it over to the copying machine and set it down, and as the bright blue light shined from beneath, he could feel a change in his fortune.

He just couldn't tell if it was good or not.

He made as many copies as he could afford, just in case, and on each of them, he took out a black marker and made a circle around the Russian's face.

By God, he would find the son of a bitch.

One way or another.

Tucking the papers away in his coat, he left the warmth of the library, and stepped back out into the city. Brno was huge, and there were so many buildings, and there was so many _people_.

Everything was bustling now, as the afternoon sun hung over the horizon.

How would he possibly find someone who knew the Russian?

He would need dumb luck, and maybe more money. He would just have to revert to his original plan.

Taking out a copy of the photo from his coat, letting his arm rest as the blood finally started to coagulate and slow, he stopped everyone that he could, and shoved the paper in their faces, pointing to the Russian and shouting, loudly, "Hey, do you know this man?" even though he was sure that hardly any of them understood him.

Most of them broke away from him, sending him wide-eyed looks of alarm, as though he were crazy—and maybe he was—and some of them studied the photo, thoughtfully, and then shook their heads.

He pushed on.

He fell still whenever he passed a police officer, and stood straight and still, and when he was past them he would start right back up again.

It was foolhardy.

Stupid.

But what else could he do?

He kept asking, and sometimes he would grab someone, and when they looked at the photo, something shifted and darkened in their eyes, and he just _knew _that they recognized him, but then they would just pull away and shake their heads, and walk off briskly.

God, God.

Would no one help him? Wouldn't anyone be brave?

And then, finally, he grabbed the shawl of an old woman, and when she turned to hit him with her purse, he shoved the paper in her face, and pointed. His eyes were desperate, maybe, because she furrowed her brow, and then looked down.

She humored him, and adjusted her glasses upon her nose.

A moment of silence.

And then she snapped her fingers, and looked up at him, waving her hand in the air as she said, voice quaking and warm, "_Ano...Dobrá tedy._" She reached out her wrinkled hand, and pointed in the direction from whence he had came. "_Tam! Vlakové nádrazí_."

He didn't understand, but he reached out and grabbed her hands and clenched them, crying, eagerly, "Thank you!"

And then he turned and darted off back where he had come from, because even though he didn't know what he needed to find down here she had _pointed_ here, and it was better than nothing, and as he sped off, she called from behind, "_Prosím!_"

He walked down, farther and farther, and the trains were looming in the distance again, and he kept asking everyone he saw.

Some of them knew, and they all said, "_Vlakové nádrazí!_" But he didn't know what that meant, and it was frustrating, because they all said it, over and over and over again, but what was did it _mean_?

As he stood in the middle of the train station, agitated and annoyed and feeling helpless, he paced back and forth, staring at the pavement.

He bumped into someone, accidentally, and when he looked up to tell them to move it along, a huge sign above caught his eye.

In big, bold letters, it said _Vlakové nádrazí._

He looked around, dumbly.

And then it hit him like lightening, and he realized that it meant 'train station'.

They had been telling him all along to go back to the train station.

And now he felt something like hope, because he was in the right place. There was something here that he needed to find.

Someone here _knew_.

He looked around, and a payphone caught his eye, and his wallet felt so light, and if he got a clue here then there was possibly a long journey ahead of him.

He had to be prepared.

Slinking over to the phone, he picked it up, and dropped in coins and punched the numbers, pressing his palm against his left ear to shield it from the roar of the trains around him.

It rang. He waited.

And then a stiff, bored voice drawled, "_Hello_?"

He paused for a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly as he bowed his head, and then he gathered his strength and muttered, "Hey, Roderich. It's me."

A silence, and then Roderich's voice came alive and he hissed, fervently, "_Gilbert_? _What took you so long? I thought you had died off in the woods somewhere_!"

He furrowed his brow and grumbled, "I almost did."

But Roderich did not seem overly concerned for his well-being, and asked, eagerly, "_So! So? Well? Where are you? Did you find him yet? Do you have him_?"

Now came the part he was dreading, and he could feel the hammering of his heart as he tried to delay the inevitable.

It would happen eventually.

"I'm here," he began weakly, voice low and deep as he tried to hide his shame, "In...in Brno."

The volcano exploded, as he had expected.

"_IN_ _BRNO_?" came the shriek from the other end, and he pulled the phone away as Roderich's voice pierced his ear, "_In _Brno_? It's been two and half _weeks_! Why the _hell_ are you still in _Brno_? How long have you been there_?"

Roderich's shrieks were painful in his ears.

He couldn't really blame him.

"I just... I just got here earlier."

"_Earlier_? _Where the _fuck_ have you been? Jesus Christ, Gilbert! What do you think this is? This is not a vacation! You could have cruised up to _Moscow_ by now, Gilbert! Goddammit! Ludwig is out there and you've been sitting on your ass for over two _weeks_? Have you even found out where he went? Have you even looked? What the hell have you been _doing_? See? You see? I knew this would happen! I _knew_ it! I should have just gone MYSELF_!"

Shame.

That maybe Roderich could have done better. Roderich, whom he had deprived of raising Ludwig as a son.

Gilbert bowed his head silently, and when finally Roderich calmed down (no doubt because he could hear Erzsébet chastising him in the background) he lowered his voice and grumbled, in a strained tone, "_Listen, Gilbert, just find him. I don't care what you have to do_."

Well.

That was as good an invitation as any, and he blurted, quickly, "Roderich, I need more money!"

For a second, Roderich sputtered, "_More mon_—" and then he fell still, and Gilbert could practically hear his teeth grinding as he gasped, "_How much_?"

"Maybe... Maybe another thousand. At least."

A strangled sound.

"I think I'm really close to someone that knows where they went. There's someone here in the train station. I'm about to start asking around."

"_Do you have a pen_?"

"Yeah."

"_I'll wire it to you_," came the grumbled reply, and as Gilbert scratched down the name of the bank that Roderich was intending to use, he could only pray that he did not let Roderich down, in the end.

Like he always let Ludwig down.

"_When you get there, call me. I'll need at least an hour_."

"Alright."

"_Don't fuck it up, Gilbert_."

And even though he knew he was wearing Roderich's thin patience, he just had to bring it up.

"Roderich, I'm... I'm having trouble getting across the borders. Tunnels are hard to find, and I can't climb fences so good right now—"

"_I'll take care of it. I'll call in some favors. Let me know where you need to go. See, this is why I make sure I stay on everyone's _good side_, Gilbert. You should try it sometime_!"

He fell silent, bending underneath unspeakable weariness and Roderich's fury, and he could only grumble, "Thanks," as he meant to hang up.

Roderich stopped him.

"_Gilbert_?"

"Yeah?"

A moment of hesitation, and Roderich hissed, voice barely a whisper, "_I want you to call me every time you stop in a city. I've had this job for a long time, and I'm way past the point of diplomatic formality. I'll get you wherever you need to go, no matter how many ethics I have to stomp on along the way, and, God help me, if you need to shoot someone, Gilbert, don't even stop and think about whether or not you _should_. Just get in, get Ludwig, get out, and I'll do what I can to make it disappear later_."

Gilbert fell still, and for a moment, he almost smiled.

That was probably the most endearing thing Roderich would ever say for the rest of his life.

"Thanks," he finally said, and set the phone down.

As the trains whistled and chugged around him, and the people passed by, and the sun rose higher and brighter, he somehow felt that he had passed a point of no return.

He sensed something terrible on the horizon.

But it was too late for him now.

No matter what happened...

Straightening his shoulders, he furrowed his brow and set off, and the tellers around him were numerous. Guards stood in every corner.

So, who was it here, that he needed to find?

He waited until the crowds thinned, and then he slunk up to the first ticket counter, and pulled out the paper. And even though the first man was unhelpful, the second was a little more useful, and only pointed down the row. Agitated and nervous, he fell down to the next, who shook her head. He moved on, and there was another shake of a head, and then below another point, and then, finally, he had reached the very last booth.

Well, then, this had to be it.

Stalking up to the counter, feeling confident that he had cornered his prey, he slammed the paper on the counter and barked, "Hey! You!"

The teller looked up, brow low in annoyance.

"You know this man?" he asked, petulantly, and the teller's eyes fell down, and there was a horrible moment of silence, and his heart was pounding in his ears.

And then the man averted his eyes and inspected his nails, saying, quickly, "Nope! Can't help you. Sorry."

Bullshit.

"Are you sure?" he ground out, and he could tell just by his shifty eyes and cool attitude that he was being played. "Don't you wanna look again?"

"Not really."

"I really, _really _need to find this man," he continued, and now his voice was a muffled hiss as he spoke through gritted teeth, and he had _never _been patient...

"Listen, man, I told you, I can't help you."

His fingers contracted so hard that he accidentally crumpled the paper within them.

"No! _You _listen," he hissed, his patience waning, and he resisted the urge to reach out and throttle the man, "I've asked _everybody_, and everybody is sending me to _you_! Now, are you gonna tell me or not?"

A silence, and the man's brow was low and stern, and he shook his head.

"Don't fuck around! I know you know him, now _tell _me!"

The man looked around, anxiously, and now he stared down at Gilbert with something that looked like disbelief. "You don't know what you're getting into," he finally said, placing his palms on the counter, and there was something dark in his voice as he added, "No one goes _looking _for Braginsky. Most people spend their entire lives trying to avoid him."

"Well," Gilbert muttered, and now he _did _grab the man's collar, "_I'm _looking for him, and I'm gonna find him, and if you don't help me, then you're gonna regret it! We have unfinished business."

The man stared down at him, unfazed, and only shook his head.

"You're crazy! Just let it go, whatever it was." He broke free of Gilbert's hands, and scoffed, "And don't threaten me, either! There's nothing you could do that would even compare to _him_. My family came here from Poland. I've seen what Braginsky can do."

He looked around then, and lowered his voice into an ominous whisper.

"Listen here, there was this little town, next to mine, that sheltered a student group. They did all kinds of stupid things, sabotage and staging rebellions and whatnot, and when Braginsky was finally brought in to take them down, do you know what he did? He didn't even bother knocking on doors and looking for them. He rode through with his men and their tanks and he burned the entire town to the ground. I could see the smoke from my house! I could _smell _it. That was how he made general, you know! I left the next week. You're an idiot if you go after him... Everyone died."

_Run!_

A sudden smell of gunpowder, and he remembered the searing heat and black smoke of the grenade he had thrown, and for a terrible second, he could only imagine that little blaze magnified tenfold, engulfing an entire village, and the whole while the Russian stood up on top of a tank in front of a blood-red sunset, hand shielding his eyes from the bright light of the fire as embers and ash floated around him, pale hair and eyes glowing orange in the inferno, watching with a calm smile and loose stance from behind a veil of shimmering, scorching air as people screamed and ran and _burned_—

He shuddered, and for a moment, his resolve foundered, and he fell back, horrified and alarmed.

No one ever went looking for _him_.

Except Ludwig.

Maybe Ludwig hadn't intended to seek him out, not intentionally, but it had happened, and he had offered himself up willingly, even though he had sensed too, perhaps, what kind of terror lay in wait.

Ludwig was brave. He was not.

Still, he had to press forward. There was no turning back, after all, and whatever the Russian did to other people was of little concern. He only cared about what the Russian did to Ludwig.

Let the towns burn, as long as Ludwig stood safe on the sidelines.

For now.

How could he convince this man to speak?

His shifted his weight, anxiously.

Well.

When all else failed...

"Just tell me what you know," he said, as he dug for his wallet, "I'll pay. Just tell me what direction he went."

He tried to keep the desperation from his voice, but it was not working, and the man crossed his arms above his chest defiantly, but his shifty eyes made Gilbert press on.

"You're way in over your head. I'd send you to your death."

"It doesn't matter. Look, times are hard, you need the money. A hundred," he offered, and the man scoffed.

"Marks? For Braginsky? You'll have to do better than _that_..."

"No," Gilbert snipped, pulling out his wallet, "I mean American!" He pulled the bill out, and added, eagerly, "Let's let Mr., _ah_..." He looked down at the paper, "Mr. Franklin do the talking for us!"

A short silence.

Eh...

...it was smoother coming from Alfred's mouth.

The man paused and looked around nonetheless, and then lifted a brow.

"American, eh? That's better."

Relieved, Gilbert set the bill upon the counter, but kept his fist firmly upon it, muttering, "Talk!"

A hesitation, and then the man sighed in defeat. "Look, I'm only doing this because I need the money. I don't know exactly what happened. All I know is, the train was coming in from Prague and, for some reason, it got stopped down in the middle. We were about to send out assistance, because we thought it had derailed, but then it started up again later that night. When it arrived, the conductor looked like something had scared the holy hell out of him—Braginsky, no doubt, probably put a damn gun to his head to make him stop—and the train was supposed to go to Budapest, but the conductor came up, looking kinda crazy, sayin' that no, no, no, they weren't going to Budapest anymore, he had to go to..."

He paused, and appeared to be struggling, and Gilbert leaned forward, hanging.

"Where? Where?"

"...a straight line, to Moscow. No stops. No one else was allowed to board that train. And I don't wanna know why, either. And that's all I know. Moscow was the last I heard."

And then the man reached out and snatched the bill out from under his fist, and Gilbert could only stand there for a stunned moment, head spinning.

Oh, God.

He had not expected Moscow. He had not expected to have to set foot in Russia.

Maybe Serbia, or Bulgaria, but not _Russia_...

He did not want to go _there_.

Would he turn his back on Ludwig now?

Swirling around on his heel, he meant to walk off, and find the bank that Roderich was using, because suddenly he needed a _lot _more money—

"Hey," came a cry behind him.

He paused, looking over his shoulder in irritation.

"What?"

"Hey, do me a favor. When he finds you—he'll find you before you find him, you know that, don't you?—when he finds you, don't ever tell him I helped you. I got two little girls at home. I'd like to see them grow up."

Ice down his back.

"Don't you mean 'if' he finds me?"

"No," was the immediate response, "I mean when."

Gilbert only frowned, a rush of adrenaline in his veins at the seriousness on the man's face. But he nodded nonetheless, tucking his wallet back into his pocket, and turned on his heel, walking off.

And a warning followed him :

"You won't ever come back."

He shuddered.

Still, he walked forward.

He would not stop. He couldn't.

_Wait for me._

The day was young.

* * *

><p>It was overwhelming.<p>

His first thought.

He had never cared to see the house from the outside. It would have felt wrong, somehow, or maybe it would have deepened his depression, but either way, he had avoided looking at it the last time.

It was unavoidable this time, as the car left the cobbled street and paused at a huge gate, and as Toris left the car to stick a key in the lock and pull it open, Ludwig could only stare at the long drive ahead, as low-hanging trees stood behind the gate and around the path. Toris leapt back in, and drove through, and then leapt out again, to close it and lock it.

He would have offered to take turns, since Toris had gotten out once already, but...

Ivan's iron grip upon his shoulders would not allow it.

They were driving again, and as the long path finally rounded a corner, he could see the house, for the first time. He found himself leaning forward against the front seat, his face down next to Toris', as he looked up through the windshield towards the sky.

It stood tall, not as tall as the great hotel, but still intimidating in its presence, maybe three stories. White-washed rock, white shingles on the roof, odd, arched windows that held frosted glass, and all around there were short trees, no taller than the second level of the house, bare branches swaying in the wind. The roof was arched in the center, and upon the top stood two great chimneys, and one rounded portion that looked almost some kind of royal tower from one of those stories that Gilbert used to tell him when he was a child. Dead hedges on either side of the path, and he realized just how high the steps to the door were, and he could have crouched and walked underneath the bottom of the house quite comfortably had there not been smoothed concrete around it. The colors outside were as pale and bland as the colors inside, and everything was white and cold and fragile.

It was overwhelming, almost.

A castle of ice.

So alone. There were no other houses even in sight. Only snow-covered pines, a frozen river gleamed far out in the distance, and it struck him that this was really the definition of Siberia; a frozen wilderness, vast and inescapable, wild and dangerous.

He wondered, momentarily, how Ivan had ever found this isolated little spot. How he had ever known it existed.

As it turned out, he didn't even have to ask, because Ivan, seeing him staring upwards as they finally exited the vehicle, seemed more than happy to elaborate.

"Do you like it? It's pretty isn't it?" Ivan took his hand, and tugged him up towards the stairs, and he could only gawk up at the skyline. "It was designed for a millionaire from Athens. A diamond trader, you see, and he built this all the way out here so that he would have control over all the diamonds that came out of here. He was an acquaintance of mine, actually, back when I lived in Moscow." Ivan then turned smoldering eyes to him, and his voice was low and husky as he added, "Coincidentally, he died the same year that I decided to move out here too. After, that is, he left me the house in his will. Another happy coincidence."

Coincidence.

He shivered, because Ivan's sly voice indicated that there was no such thing as a coincidence where _he _was concerned, and the warm thrill that ran through his veins reminded him of Ivan's quiet danger.

It was wrong, maybe, but it was somewhat exhilarating to know that Ivan was so perilous to _everyone_—but not to him.

He was immune to Ivan's treacherous 'coincidences'. Ivan had promised him, hadn't he? That he would never hurt him.

He was immune.

How ridiculous, that such a horrifying notion gave him such a rush of adrenaline and ego, but there it was, and he could only go along with it, because adrenaline and ego were probably the only things keeping him alive out here. Ivan's hand was still around his own, and he went along with that too, and let Ivan lead him where he would, as he continued to chatter amicably.

"He never had a chance to furnish it, and I'm not a very good decorator. I get embarrassed sometimes, having people over, because everything is so empty! I'll finish it, one of these days. I know, you can help me pick stuff out! I'll find some papers, and you can find things that look nice. You probably know more about that kind of stuff than I do."

They scaled the steps, Ivan's words running through his ears like white noise, and then he was inside, and it wasn't so unbearably cold, and they stood there for a moment, as Ivan stared blankly ahead with a furrowed brow, as though wondering what kind of new adventure he could drag Ludwig off onto.

Who could know what went on Ivan's mind? Ludwig certainly didn't.

Thankfully, Ivan only tilted his head after a minute, and said, "It's still early. Are you hungry? Irina is probably making lunch."

He _was _hungry, actually, and he longed for a reprieve. Immediately, he said, maybe too eagerly, "I'll help her," because it seemed like a good idea, and he needed a break from Ivan's intense air.

A thoughtful silence, and Ivan finally nodded his head, and placed his chin in his palm.

"...alright. That's fine. I've got work to do now, anyway. Just stay with Toris."

He nodded, and Ivan gripped his hand so tightly that it was nearly painful, and then turned on his heel and glided off down the hall, and Ludwig breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

That had been almost too easy.

Footsteps behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, Toris was suddenly standing beside him, shaking his head and looking absolutely exhausted. He waited until Ivan's footsteps were no longer audible in the tiled hall, and then he looked up at Ludwig, and for a moment, when he twitched, Ludwig thought that he was going to reach up and hug him.

He smacked the back of Ludwig's head instead, and not gently.

"You idiot!"

Wincing and rubbing his head to smooth his hair, Ludwig could only sent him an irritated glare, and bark, "_What_?"

Toris reached up with his good hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and shook him, weakly, hissing, "I can't believe you! What were you thinking? You're so lucky—ah, you're so _lucky_, you jerk! How could you even think to say that to him? Don't you know what could have happened? Do you see this cast or what? Huh? You would have had a lot more of them if you'd been alone with him, and if he hadn't come out of it! Are you stupid?" One final shake, and Toris summed up with a final, incredulous, "What were you _thinking_?"

He knew what Toris was referring to, and he had seen that horrible look in Ivan's eyes when he had blurted out so idiotically what he had heard about Ivan's father.

But still.

Pulling away from Toris' fist, he glowered down and spat back, as he shoved at his chest, "I _wasn't _thinking! If you didn't notice, I nearly _died _last night! Did you forget that, or what? _You're _the _jerk_! All you had to do was _get out of bed and drive_! I barely made it out of there, no thanks to _you_!"

They glared at each other, irritably, silent and brooding, but it was Toris, in the end, who broke first and lowered his eyes. His shoulders slumped, his combative air turned into one of silent defeat, and for a moment, Ludwig regretted shouting at him, because Toris was just...

Hanging his head, Toris finally muttered, "Sorry."

Reaching up and scratching at his collar, he finally relented too, and managed, lowly, "Yeah. So am I."

An awkward silence, as they averted their eyes and shifted their weight, and then Toris finally sighed, and said, "Come on. It's this way."

Ludwig followed behind, and with every step his annoyance faded.

...Toris was just like him.

Somewhere he shouldn't be. Overpowered and overwhelmed.

Hopeless.

Toris led him through twisting hallways, endless doors, and then they finally found the kitchen. And when they pushed through the door, suddenly everything was a lot better, because Irina was bustling about, that boy following behind her like a dog, carrying bowls, and the air was warm and pleasant, and he could smell coffee. And with weather this cold, he had no issue having coffee with every single meal.

She saw them standing there, and she looked somewhat anxious as she met Ludwig's eyes and cried, "Oh! You're back! I'm so glad! Did you...have a good trip?"

Her hands were wringing a bit, and the boy at her side stared up at Ludwig in awe, gawking at his uniform.

For a moment, he only stood there, feeling almost abashed as she shuffled her feet, and then he dropped his shoulders and said, "Yeah. Yeah, it was...good. Everything's good."

She smiled, brightly, and he tried to smile too.

"I'm glad! I was worried."

Sometimes it was better to lie. Gilbert had taught him that.

She dragged him over and shoved him down into a chair, and refused to allow him to help as he had intended, and as he sat there, chin resting upon a clenched fist, he stared at Toris from across the table, and he wondered if this insane gathering of people could ever possibly function as a family.

Irina's cheerfulness seemed determined to make it happen, or maybe she was just in denial, and when she pushed a plate of food and a cup of coffee in front of him, he could only say a polite 'thank you' and continue his staring contest with Toris.

Toris wasn't much better.

If only Toris would help him amalgamate better...

He should have helped him more. Not chided him.

Maybe he and Toris had just gotten off on the wrong foot. Clashed too soon.

He would try harder to make friends, if that word could ever be applicable, but, whatever could be said about them, at least Irina made him feel welcome, and when she came around from behind and threw a wool scarf around his neck, he only sat there, and let her do as she pleased.

It seemed, lately, that he was just letting everyone do as they pleased. It was easier that way.

Then they were all sitting, and he took up his fork, and tried to act normal.

Normalcy was a luxury around here.

He had never had a meal with them before. It wasn't so bad.

Ludwig ate in silence, as the others spoke and laughed together in Russian, even the boy, whose name he still did not know, and by the time the coffee was gone and the plates were empty, Toris seemed to be in a much better mood. Which was preferable, since he was obliged to stay in Toris' presence.

The day passed, the white sun of noon became golden as the evening set in, and he spent the time walking at Toris' side through the halls. Even if they didn't speak much, that was alright, because he felt better when he was with Toris. And a quick tour was alright, too, because if he was going to be living here...

A scaling of stairs. Toris pointed out a particularly large painting.

Living here...

That was right. This wasn't just Ivan's house. It was his house, too, now wasn't it?

They passed through the second floor, and every so often, Toris would look over at him, as though wanting to speak, and then would just shake his head and fall silent.

Well, that was alright. _He_ didn't mind making an awkward situation even more awkward.

"Where are you from, Toris?"

There was another staircase before them, and for a second they stood still, and Toris seemed to be debating on whether to go up or down. He would have assumed up, since he had not been shown the highest level, but then Toris lifted his chin and suddenly took the stairs down.

As they descended, Toris finally grumbled, "Lithuania."

"A city?"

"A small town. Nothing you'd be familiar with."

He furrowed a brow and stared at the steps as he walked, and for a second he thought it would be better just to shut his mouth, but he was supposed to be making friends, wasn't he? Determined, he turned his eyes down to Toris and pressed, "A town, huh? That sounds nice. I've never really been out of the city. What did you do there?"

Toris glanced up at him, and Ludwig could swear, for a moment, that he smiled.

"My family had a farm," he said, lowly, and then he snorted, and there was almost a laugh as he added, "I used to watch the sheep!"

Ludwig smiled, too. That _did _sound nice.

Toris' mood was improved.

"I remember going out to the market with my parents, to sell wool. And even though we didn't need anymore, I'd always come back with a new animal. I don't know that much about it, not really, but I'd thought about looking around here, you know... For land. Irina likes that kind of work, too, and it would be something good for me to do."

Their eyes met, and Ludwig, eyes wide and still smiling, asked, dubiously, "You wanted to start a farm...in Siberia?"

For a moment, Toris saw his expression and laughed, _really _laughed, and Ludwig decided then, after having been on the fence for quite some time, that he _liked _Toris. No matter how shifty his moods and how useless his advice.

If Toris could still laugh, even now...

Maybe the horizon was not so dark.

"Well," he finally said, good-humouredly, "I don't know anything about farming, but if you ever find land... I think I'd like to come out and work for you, if you don't mind."

A silence, and then Toris said, "I think you'd be good for milking cows."

The seriousness with which he said it made Ludwig laugh too, another sensation that he had long been without.

He liked Toris.

The first floor was back, more endless halls, and he tucked his hands in his pockets as they roamed around aimlessly, speaking about anything they could think of, and every so often Toris would reach out and open a door, and show him the room inside. None of them were painted, or furnished, and Toris would say, 'Well, this is eventually going to be a library,' or, 'This was going to be a piano room,' or, 'We'll turn this one into art gallery.'

A library? Piano room? Art gallery?

He didn't speak, but he couldn't help but wonder if any of that would ever come to pass, in this enormous bare house, and maybe Toris was just a dreamer. He wouldn't say anything to the contrary, and if Toris had his sights set on it, then he would keel over dead before he dashed even _that _simple hope.

But he did accept one thing as an indisputable fact : Ivan knew nothing about decorating.

Not even the walls were painted in most of these room. Some of them had rolls of carpet set up in the corner, abandoned before they had even been set down. Some of the rare furniture that he did see looked like it had been plucked out of the dark ages.

God help him, suddenly playing house with Ivan didn't seem so bad, and if he could at least get his hands on some of that war chest money that Ivan had mentioned, then he could at least buy some decent wallpaper.

For now, he would just suppress his cringe and let Toris dream.

"Do you play the piano, Ludwig?"

A pang.

Roderich's fingers, drifting over the keys as Ludwig had stood behind, watching in awe.

"...no. Do you?"

"Not really. There's one upstairs. I mess around with it sometimes, but I don't really know how. I'd like to learn the violin, too. I thought about going down to Lensk one day and taking lessons from the orchestra."

"Why don't you?"

Toris only shrugged a shoulder, smiling as he walked straight ahead, and it all was going very well, until Ludwig opened his mouth again.

Goddamn him and goddamn mouth.

"How'd you get here, Toris? How did he get you?"

There was a terrible, suffocating silence, in which Toris' smile fell and his eyes darkened, and then he pursed his lips and sped his pace, hissing, irritably, "That's none of your _business_!"

The good mood was gone, and there was no getting it back, and Ludwig only walked behind the agitated Toris, brow low and staring at the floor again.

Tactless. Why couldn't he assess a situation before he said dumb things?

The more he thought about it, as the clock ticked by, the stupider it seemed, because if someone he barely knew had come up to him, in Lensk for example, and had asked him that same question, he probably would have told them to shut up and fuck off.

Which was exactly what Toris had said, come to think, only in politer words.

Actually, _he_ might have punched them in the face.

If Ivan asked him again what he wanted for Christmas, now only four days away, he would ask, perhaps, for a book on how to overcome being a socially illiterate idiot.

...Ivan would probably buy him a Russian version.

Suddenly, he blurted aloud, without thinking, "Will you try to teach me Russian?"

A pause, and then Toris snipped, "No," and said nothing more.

The halls passed, and his mood was foundering too, but then suddenly there were two more voices in the hallway.

They didn't sound much happier.

Toris froze in his tracks, but Ludwig, his curiosity too great, rounded the corner.

His curiosity would probably prove fatal one of these days.

Toris was beside him, then, but he almost didn't notice. In the hall before him, standing before each other in a surprisingly electric atmosphere, stood Irina and Ivan.

They were hissing at each other. Well, Ivan was hissing, and Irina was shouting, and every few seconds she would raise her finger and poke it into Ivan's chest, and he would step back from her, and even from where he stood Ludwig could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

He feared, suddenly, for Irina. What was she _thinking_?

Toris seemed supremely unconcerned, and only stood there, leaning against the wall and listening.

Ludwig looked over, and asked, anxiously, "What are they arguing about?"

Toris scoffed, and crossed his arms, shaking his head as he muttered, "You! What else?"

Him?

He felt the nervous squirm in his stomach, and wished that Toris would be a little more sympathetic to his plight, just once. Maybe his helpless stare gave away his thoughts, because Toris shifted his weight, and added, reluctantly, "Irina wants to take you out around town. Ivan doesn't want you to go."

"Why?"

Toris rolled his eyes. "Irina has a habit of...getting into trouble, even if she doesn't mean to. He doesn't like for her to wander around outside. And he doesn't want _you _trying to play hero and doing something that will be an annoyance for him later."

Well.

He didn't understand what all of _that _meant, necessarily, but it didn't matter anymore, because at that moment, Ivan must have said something exceedingly rude or disrespectful, for Irina drew back her hand and slapped him straight across the face. For a moment, Ivan almost staggered.

Ludwig froze in shock.

The sound echoed in the hall.

Everything was still.

Static.

The first emotion that successfully broke through his shock was complete disbelief; Irina had _slapped_ Ivan.

Wait. Slapped him? No one hit Ivan. No one would dare!

And the next emotion was _horror_, because he knew that Ivan's retaliation would be swift and merciless, and Irina was just a woman, no match for Ivan's ruthless brutality, and she was so sweet and too clumsy to escape.

Ivan straightened up.

Toris only watched.

Irina felt like a mother.

Ivan's brow was ever lowering.

He did not even think of the consequences. As they stood there in a thick silence, he bolted forward out from the shadows, jumping in front of Irina and pressing his back against her, standing straight and ready and completely willing to accept any blow that Ivan would throw, because no matter how much he feared Ivan, he would _not _let him strike Irina.

Hitting a woman was something far beyond reprehensible.

For a moment no one moved, as he stood there with braced legs and shoulders, Irina tucked behind him, and then he realized, with a lurch of apprehension and a furrowing of his brow, that Ivan was not raising his hand in anger.

He only stood there, cheek red from where Irina had slapped him, and Ludwig could swear that he saw something strange in Ivan's eyes, like he was almost...

Almost...

Abashed?

Irina suddenly giggled, breaking the silence, and when he looked back at her, she was smiling at him, eyes warm and completely unconcerned. He looked over at Toris, who only shook his head with a sigh of exasperation. He looked up at Ivan, who shifted his weight restlessly.

...he was confused.

Then Irina reached up and pinched his cheek gently, crooning, "Oh, Ludwig! You're so sweet! Look at you! You're a real gentleman, you know! That's so hard to find these days!" He flushed, and she lowered her voice to a whisper, and said, in his ear, "Don't worry, he would never hit _me_." Raising her voice, she looked over, meeting Ivan's churning eyes, and added, slyly, "I used to spank him when he was little!"

Ivan's other cheek turned as red as the one Irina had slapped, and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, and Ludwig could only look back and forth between them as they began to argue again.

"See? Look, he can't help himself! You'll just get him into trouble! Look, look, this is what I'm talking about! Irina, you won't go out today. He'll stay with me. You always get into trouble."

He felt kind of stupid. Great.

"It's your fault he did that! If you didn't act so _scary _all the time! I won't cause any problems."

Ludwig almost smiled, as Irina chided Ivan and said what she would to him without fear. _Irina_, and yet he could never hope to say such things to intimidating Ivan. It stirred something within him, that Ivan would never raise his hand to Irina.

Maybe the wolf could be petted, then.

He glanced over at Toris, whose left arm was still up in its sling.

...maybe not.

Ivan was irritated.

"Irina, he's not going with you. Just leave."

"What! With you in such a bad mood now? You can be so rude, sometimes, Ivan."

"You test my patience. Please leave."

Ivan's voice was stern and sharp, but not loud like Irina's was, and she was stubborn, grabbing Ludwig's arm with her own, and saying, as she stared Ivan down, "I'll go! But only if he goes with me."

"He stays here!"

"Let him go with me, just today! I promise I'll be careful! Nothing bad will happen. He can handle himself okay."

Ludwig only frowned, and wondered if either of them would ask him, at any point, where exactly _he _wanted to go.

They never did.

Finally, Ivan sighed, relenting under Irina's loud determination, and reached up, scratching irritably at his collar and grumbling, "Well! Well... Take him, then, if you want. But have him back here before sundown."

Eagerly, Irina began to pull him away to God only knew where, but before he was out of reach, Ivan's hand was suddenly around his arm, and he was pulled back so forcefully that he nearly stumbled. When he looked over, Ivan met his eyes with an alarming intensity, and he added, softly, "Before sunset. Don't make me come looking for you. Either of you."

For a horrible second, Ludwig found himself caught under Ivan's silent warning, as he had been caught under Natalia's earlier, but then Irina came back and waved her hand in Ivan's face, fussing, "You are scaring him! Go away! I'll bring him back when I feel like it!"

A final squeeze on his arm, as Ivan grunted something in Russian, and then he turned on his heel and stalked off, and Ludwig could only stare after him as Irina took his hand.

Suddenly, he didn't want to go with Irina anymore (had he ever?) because Ivan was in a bad mood, and if Ivan sat alone and brooded, there was no telling what he would come back home to. He wanted stay exactly where he was, and follow behind Ivan, and go into damage control.

Before he wound up like Toris.

But...

"Come on," Irina goaded, pulling him along, "Walk with me! Do you want to see the town?"

He didn't, not really, and it was too goddamn cold, but he nodded anyway if only because she looked so excited and he did not want to disappoint her. He caught Toris' eye, and he almost asked if he would come along too, because he felt a little better when Toris was with him (because he had gone through this once already, even if he wasn't particularly helpful) but Irina already had him halfway down the hall.

A grabbing of gloves and ushankas from the wall.

The door burst open, and he was dragged out. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

The air was just as mercilessly cold as he had expected it to be, and he hated that maybe he was becoming used to it, and she held his hand as she tugged him along enthusiastically.

This frozen little town...

What could she show him here?

They walked down the path, and he could barely keep up with her fast, if not clumsy, pace, and she kept looking over and smiling at him, and even though he was irritated at being dragged out here, he could not seem to stay angry at her.

In the back of his mind, all he could think of...

Ivan was brooding.

The driveway was long, and at the end stood the great gate, the low-hanging trees, and then they were on a cobbled street, and the buildings were so sparse and tiny that he felt like he walked into the jungle and discovered some remote new tribe of humans.

"That's the post office," she said, pointing here, "and that's the doctor's house," she pointed there, "and that's the KGB office," she pointed ahead. "See? It's so small here. Everyone knows everyone."

He didn't doubt it.

What? Maybe a hundred people, in the entire town? Less?

When they passed the KGB office, the door burst open and two men stood in the frame, and they leered across the street, cheeks red from the cold and breath visible, the guns at their waists gleaming in the pale sun as they watched them go by. Irina smiled at them, but only briefly and nervously. Her grip on his hand tightened.

One of the men leaned forward and crooned something smoothly in Russian, their shameless eyes firmly upon her chest, and Ludwig could not help but furrow his brow in irritation as Irina's cheeks flushed a deep red, and she pulled her coat tightly around herself and sped her pace. They stepped out of the doorway as though meaning to follow her, and Ludwig, agitated, looked over his shoulder and sent them a withering glare.

They observed his hand entangled with hers, and then they giggled, and threw their hands in the air in surrender, shouting coarse words that were probably innuendos, maybe congratulations, and he understood now why Ivan was so uneasy about Irina coming out, and why he had been concerned about him acting a 'hero', so to speak, because if they had come over and tried to lay hands on her, he probably would have snatched a gun from one of them and shot them both where they stood.

He was no longer in any mood to be nice.

Or forgiving.

And that was probably the 'annoyance' that Ivan had wanted to avoid, because it would probably involve a mountain of paperwork to explain the death of two KGB officers in such a remote town.

Not that he would have minded in this instance causing Ivan such an annoyance.

Shameless.

Did they really think they could win a woman's affections in such a crude manner? Assuming that he was one to speak, having neither sought out to win nor even considered a woman's affections. For all he knew about it.

His agitation was mingled with a nervous lurch that he couldn't place.

...Ivan was brooding.

They kept walking, passing through the streets until all of the houses were gone, and then there was another path, lined with small trees, and unpaved. The frozen dirt glittered with ice crystals, and she never once released his hand, and he wondered now where they were going.

The path winded this way and that, and then, suddenly, gaping up from the ground, there was a _massive _crater. Absolutely massive, and it cut into the ground as though a great comet had fallen there, and all around it there were heavy iron bars, a fence to prevent one from falling in, and the layers of dirt that were cut down into it twisted in the mist. He could not see the bottom from where he stood. For the mist, he could not see the other side.

He had never seen anything like it.

"What _is _that?" he asked, and now it was he who was leading Irina, and she only smiled, and when they reached the railing, he gripped the bars in his hands and leaned far over, gaping down into the void, and feeling very much astonished.

Down, way down, there were men working on the makeshift roads that they had cut into the earth, even in such cold they worked, and at the very bottom there was a pit of frozen, blue-green water. Ancient, sulfuric, volcanic water, stagnant with years of chemicals and natural sediment.

Irina let him look this way and that in awe, and then she leaned against the railing too, grabbing his arm firmly as though she was frightened that he would topple over the edge.

"It's the diamond mine," she finally said, and he could only stare down at it, and despite the miserable place that it was in, it was nothing short of absolutely astounding. "They keep making it bigger and bigger. Sometimes you can find little ones, around here on the ground, if you look really hard. Ivan's got so many at home! He always has some cut, for Christmas, or my birthday..."

Well, that would explain how they all lived so comfortably, and how Ivan managed to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. How he could hold such grand balls.

Hardly better than blood diamonds.

He didn't know anything about communism, not really, but he was pretty sure that such personal wealth was not allowed.

Well, every corrupt government made exceptions, didn't they?

"It will dry up soon, I'm sure," she suddenly said, wistfully, and Ludwig only stared into the void.

They fell silent, and Irina was shifting her weight back and forth, suddenly anxious.

"Did I tell you that Ivan is my little brother?"

"No," he replied, immediately, and yet somehow he was not surprised.

They had the same color hair, and both she and Natalia had hinted at it.

"Well, he is!" she said, nervously, and Ludwig suddenly had the urge to retreat. "My little brother. He's so tall now, you wouldn't believe he was ever so tiny when he was young. Look, I know how scared you must have been out there. It can be frightening, at first. But I don't think that Ivan will ever mean for anything bad to happen to you. Sometimes, he can be a little hard to understand."

A serious understatement.

How awkward.

They stood against the railing, and Irina was leaning farther into his side, for warmth and maybe comfort, and he could see just from her expression that she had brought him out here for something very specific.

And it didn't take long to find out what.

"You know," she began, as she pressed more firmly into his side, "I still remember when Ivan was very small. He was so happy! He was such a sweet child, he really was. He used to follow me all the time. He wanted to go everywhere that I went. I didn't always let him. I usually made him stay at home. He hated being alone, he never wanted to be alone for even a minute. He loved our mother so much. She adored Ivan. He was her favorite. I was daddy's."

Oh, God. He had a feeling about where this was going.

"I should have let him come with me more, when I think about it. He was only eight then, you know, and so smart. He was so smart, you wouldn't believe! Me, so much older, and sometimes he helped me with my math homework! ...I went out with friends _that _night. I used to have lots of friends, back in Moscow. I was in my last year of school. I was so happy, that I had almost graduated. It was '45. I remember, well. The war had just ended. I went out to the theatre. I left Ivan with our parents. Mother had been so sad lately, I don't know why, and I thought it would be good for both of them."

He shifted his weight, anxiously. He was not sure that he wanted to hear this.

Irina's voice was low.

"I don't know what happened. I didn't even know that daddy felt so _bad_! He never said anything about it, so how would I know? To tell the truth, I still don't know what happened. Ivan just won't talk about it. I asked him, over and over, what happened, but he won't tell me. All I know is what the police told me... While I was out, daddy got his gun, and then he came downstairs, and he shot my mother in the head, right in front of Ivan. And then... He shot Ivan, in the chest—" her hands raised up and fell atop her chest, as though she were reliving her brother's ordeal "—and then he shot himself. Our neighbor heard the shots, and called the police, and they waited there at the house until I got home, and they took me to the hospital so that I could be with Ivan. And he just laid there. He wouldn't talk to me about it. I stayed there with him, every day. But when they let him go... That boy that came out of the hospital wasn't my little brother anymore."

He was silent.

"It was hard, after. We were alone. I tried to work, for Ivan, you know, but I wasn't really very good at anything. He had to start working so young, and he went into the army as soon as they would let him join. But, everything worked out in the end, I guess. He just didn't care about anyone anymore. He wasn't afraid of anything! He still isn't. He never stopped smiling, you know."

He shifted again, restlessly.

He did not want to know this. Why did she have to tell him this?

Turning back to him, she reached out, and took his hands.

"It's all my fault, you see, because I wasn't there to protect him, like I should have been!" She met his eyes, and tried to smile. "You know how much your big brother protected you when you were little? That's what I tried to do for him. But I was no good. I let him down. It's my fault."

And he _hated_ that he understood her. That he sympathized with Ivan.

Because Gilbert had let him down, too.

He broke her gaze and turned his eyes out onto the vast, shimmering diamond pit, and the churning in his stomach was uncomfortable, and his nose was numb.

Finally, he managed to asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

She looked out, too, and gripped his hands. "Because," she began, and Ludwig could hear the earnestness in her voice, and maybe hope, even if it was thin and very fragile, "So that you'll see that he's... He's not really a bad person! It's my fault, that he turned out like he did. I couldn't protect him. But he's still my little brother, and he's not so bad, really he isn't. If you could just see... He's not a bad person. Do you see, how he smiles when you're around? He cares for you, I know he does! If you could just see. He's not a bad person."

Who was she trying so hard to convince? Him? Or herself?

He had many things running through his head, but the only thing that came out was a weak, lame, "It's not your fault. How could you know? You'd be dead, too, if you'd stayed."

She tried to smile, but it fell, and then she asked him, beseechingly, "Why... Why didn't he just kill me, too? I don't understand why he didn't kill me, too."

Why did she seek answers from him? How would _he _know? He should have comforted her, he knew. He should have said, 'Because you were his favorite,' or, 'Because he wanted you to take care of your little brother,' or _something_.

Anything.

But he only stared at her, and then shrugged, helplessly, and she turned away, eyes on the ground.

As she led him back down the path, through the town, he kept his eyes on the ground, too, and was ashamed of himself for choking.

He was as useless as Toris.

The town passed, the sun was almost gone, and then there was the gate, and they didn't speak, and when he was back inside the house, she sent him another smile, and then shoved him off down the hall.

Where was he supposed to go? Did she want him to seek out Ivan?

He didn't know where Ivan would possibly be, and even if he had, he wouldn't have gone after him anyhow. Not now.

He would rather just go to sleep.

Instead, he looked back at the door to get his bearings, and tried to trace his way back to the room that he called his own, despite the veil of faint darkness and the fact that every room looked the same.

The sun sank past the horizon. Would Ivan come looking for him? He had passed his curfew.

Doors and doors, and then he paused in front of the one that he was relatively certain was his, looking over both shoulders to make sure that he was not being followed. Ivan always managed to sneak up on him...

But the halls were empty.

Satisfied, he raised his hand to the doorknob.

And then he froze still.

He heard someone whispering.

Through the door.

Even though he should have just turned on his heel right then and there and retreated back to the warmth and safety of Irina (who he almost considered a literal human shield; if Ivan would not touch her, then why not hide behind her?) but God help him and goddamn curiosity.

Inhaling through his nose and bracing his feet, he reached out and grabbed the doorknob, and pushed it open, just a crack. Leaning in, he pressed his ear against the gap, and listened.

Whispering in Russian.

Only one voice.

A conversation with no one.

There was no light from within. Only darkness. Cold air.

He should just go back.

He knew better.

It would be safer, to just crawl over in between Irina and Toris, and just stay there with them, wherever they were.

He knew better.

Yet still he furrowed his brow, and pushed open the door.

The room was dark.

He took a bold step inside, and let his eyes adjust. The moon could barely stream in through the thick curtains. He looked around the room, heart racing nervously. He could not see anyone, not on the bed. Not in the corner. No shadows stirred.

Reaching out behind, he shut the door gently closed, and then, emboldened, flipped on the light.

A moment of adrenaline. He squinted in the light.

And there was nothing.

No one.

No whispering.

Nothing.

He stood still for a moment, and his arms fell loose at his sides, and he wondered, blearily, if he was going crazy too.

Figured. It wouldn't be the first time he had wondered that.

He used to wonder all the time about his real parents, and where he had come from. If he had bad blood.

Like Ivan.

With a heavy sigh, he turned around, intent on retreating to Irina, now too anxious to sleep.

As soon as he was facing the door, he froze still in his tracks.

His head starting hurting.

Ivan was in the corner, sitting back in a chair, book in hand, and watching him.

_Always _watching him.

Always.

He shuddered, as Ivan stared blankly at him from the shadows, and then he managed to stammer a lame, "H-hey."

No response.

Ivan set the book down on his lap, and tilted his head, like a dog observing a stranger, and it was then that Ludwig noticed the near-empty bottle of vodka sitting next to him on the floor. It made him all the more nervous, because a drunk Ivan was even more unpredictable than a sober Ivan.

How did this stuff always happen to him?

"What were you doing in the dark?" he asked, and took a small step towards the inert Ivan, trying to appear bolder than he felt. When Ivan only stared at him, with that tilted head, he felt his resolve wavering, and his voice was much less sure when he whispered, "Why don't you...go lie down?"

Ivan did not seem to hear him, and leaned farther back, bowing his head, and it was with a voice so soft that it was barely audible that he whispered, "You're finally back."

Ludwig could only nod, looking this way and that for an easy escape should it become necessary, and then Ivan's fingers gripped the armrests of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"Took you long enough," he added, and then he looked up, and Ludwig's unease was becoming almost unbearable.

His eyes were dark-rimmed and tired, and he looked almost as though he had been crying.

But that was absurd, because Ivan did not cry.

He sat there, slumped in the chair, book nestled on his lap, hair unkempt and smiling impassively, hands clenching and unclenching, and Ludwig wondered, with something that felt like horror, if this was how Ivan's father had looked on the night he had gone crazy and murdered his wife, and then himself.

He took a step back, and no longer tried to act brave.

He had to get out of here, before...

Ivan stood up, unsteadily, and the book fell onto the floor with a dull thud.

Too late.

And then he advanced, and oh God, there was nowhere to go. To get to the door would be to go straight past Ivan, and he did not dare.

He was terrified of Ivan.

He could only back up, farther and farther, until he reached the edge of the bed, and Ivan was so close that he could smell the vodka.

"Hey," he suddenly said, trying to regain control, "you drank too much, didn't you? Lie down." Going out on a limb, he added, tentatively, "What would Irina say, if she saw you like this?"

For horrible moment, he thought that he had said the wrong thing, as Ivan's eyes narrowed, but then he only giggled.

"You're funny," he tittered, as Ludwig tried to determine whether or not he could be easily outmaneuvered. "But you took so long. She shouldn't have made you go out."

Ivan swayed to and fro, his voice slurred and soft, and Ludwig took his chance and suddenly sprang forward like a deer, aiming for the door.

He was only a deer; Ivan was a tiger.

With one impossibly fast movement, Ivan had reached out and grabbed the back of his scarf (had Irina known such a kind gesture would be his downfall?), and then he had been tossed back on the bed, and as he lie there, Ivan crawling steadily over, he could only stare at the ceiling with a furrowed brow and wonder what the hell he had gotten himself into now.

Ivan fell onto his back beside him, throwing a heavy arm over his chest, and lied there.

He nearly sighed in relief.

"Hey," Ivan chided, sloppily, "That wasn't very nice of you." He began tugging at the scarf around Ludwig's neck, and added, "She gave you one? She likes to make scarves. She gets bored."

"You should let her go out more," was his response, and Ivan's fingers entangled in the wool, and he pulled him in.

"I can't. It's dangerous. You know, don't you? Didn't you see how they looked at her? Some of them look at you like that too, you know. I don't like it when you go out without me. How can I keep you safe?"

He didn't bother to respond, and Ivan's hand wound and wound, and the scarf got shorter and shorter, and then he was finally in so close that their cheeks were touching. And then Ivan flipped over on his side and met his eyes, and for an absurd moment he had a vision of Ivan as a child, sitting with his adored mother on the couch something like this, as she ran her fingers through his hair, and then suddenly there was a barrel of a gun in front of them.

For the first time, he felt something almost like pity, and that was why, when Ivan leaned over and grabbed his shoulder, he let him yank him in.

Ivan, after all, had not tried to hurt him.

Irina's pleas for understanding rang in his ears.

It was easier to let everyone just do as they pleased, and maybe Ivan was no exception.

Ivan hadn't hurt him. It was so much simpler to stop thinking and sit back.

Ivan's fingers ran through his hair, and then down his neck, and he did not move. Ivan seemed pleased at his silence, and then his hands were down his arms, fingers grabbing painfully, but still he did not move.

He didn't move. It was easier to sit still.

Ivan's hands were rough and aggressive.

Relentless. Possessive.

But he didn't move, not even when Ivan pushed him down and crawled on top of him, and for a moment, everything was too warm, and Ivan had not tried to _hurt _him...

It was easier.

He didn't move, as Ivan took the scarf from his neck and threw it aside. Ivan was someone's little brother, too. Maybe they had more in common that he had first imagined.

Ivan, whatever else could be said, was responsible. Ivan kept his word.

It wasn't so bad.

Lips ran down his exposed neck.

He closed his eyes, and stayed still, reminding himself that he had agreed to come here. It was all for Gilbert.

Hands under his shirt. Whispering in his ear.

He thought that being compliant would make things easier.

But something shifted.

Quickly. Frighteningly.

"Hey, why don't we play a game?" Ivan suddenly whispered, and he pulled himself up onto his knees, his weight above Ludwig's stomach, and now something was _different_.

The air wasn't as warm.

Ivan's eyes were strange, and distant. He wasn't sure if Ivan was even still _there_.

He tried to open his mouth and respond, but before he could find his voice, Ivan had reached into his coat, and there was a gleam in the dim light.

A gun.

And now the air was freezing, and Ivan was far too heavy above him, and his heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid it would explode.

Ivan sat there, gun in hand, looking down at Ludwig with that same tilted head from before, as though gazing at someone he did not completely recognize.

Oh, Christ, what had he gotten himself into? What had he been thinking? A brooding Ivan, left alone to drink and talk to himself, and yet still he had barged in.

Finally, he managed to ask, shakily, "Hey, what's...what's with the gun? You shouldn't play with that."

Ivan was not a child to reprimand, but he had to say _something_, and Ivan was so damn drunk that who could know what horrible things were running through his head?

"Don't worry, it's a fun game."

A still silence. Ivan swayed.

Ivan's hand moved, and suddenly the gun pressed into his forehead, and he froze completely still, as Ivan weighed heavily above him, and when he looked into the stormy lavender eyes, he was not absolutely certain that Ivan was looking back at him.

The click of the hammer.

His heart thudded sickeningly in his chest, and oh God, oh God, Ivan was going to _shoot _him—

And then Ivan spoke, and his voice was high and slurred and almost eager.

"Have you ever played Russian roulette, Ludwig?"

Before Ludwig could open his mouth and stammer a response, Ivan had pressed the gun harder into his forehead, and he could feel the cold metal digging into his skin, and then he added, "You know the rules, don't you? One bullet! We take turns! How about I go first?"

His hands began to tremble down at his sides, as Ivan pressed him down into the bed, knees pinning him on either side, and God almighty, why had he ever left with Irina in the first place? If he had just stayed like Ivan had wanted, then he wouldn't have had time to get drunk and start hearing whatever fucking voices he heard, and maybe in this instance, Ivan was being possessed by his father.

He had been so _stupid_, to think that he was immune from Ivan. To think that he had been safe.

If he could just find Ivan again, maybe...

"Ivan," he began, and he said the name as firmly as he could for the tremor in his voice, "Stop. Look at me! You said... You said you wouldn't ever hurt me, remember?"

He hated pleading.

But now that he could feel the chill of death, so close...

He did not want to die. Just like in the snow, the survival instinct came rushing up.

He had been _so _stupid. No one was immune to Ivan.

No one.

"Ivan, it's me. Remember? You promised!"

For a second, Ivan's brow came up, and Ludwig thought that maybe he had broken through the crazed, drunken haze, and he felt the hope rising in his chest.

"It won't hurt. I promise. My mother didn't feel a thing! You won't either."

Oh, Christ.

"Your mother?" he began, in a desperate attempt to bide time as the steel pressed down, "I don't know anything about your mother, Ivan. Tell me about her."

Ivan's brow was back down. The gun pressed harder than ever.

His soft voice was sharp and dangerous.

"What? You think I don't know Irina told you? You think I don't know that Toris knows? _Everyone _knows, or they think they do! I know _everything _they say about me! I know _everything _they do behind my back! I know _everything_! They think I don't! What? Do they think I'm stupid? Do you? I know everything about you, but what do you know?"

He was losing the battle.

"Ivan! Please, stop. Listen—"

"Just be quiet, now. This won't hurt."

Oh God.

_I won't ever leave you._

The world stopped.

Oh God.

_You can depend on me._

Ivan's finger contracted.

Oh God.

_We'll be together..._

...he had wanted to hold Gilbert's hand, just once more.

Oh God.

_Forever._

Ivan squeezed the trigger.

He gasped and squinted his eyes shut, and everything was so intensely silent that he _knew _he had died, and his head split open like it was on fire, and the white light of what could have been heaven was flashing before his eyes.

Quiet.

Suffocating silence. Everything was still.

He felt numb.

He was dead.

And then there was a giggle.

His eyes shot open so fast that colored lights danced across his vision, and there was Ivan above him, and the gun was still pressed into his forehead. And then Ivan pulled the trigger again, and again, and every time the click resonated he could not help but flinch terribly, and he was shaking so fiercely that he was surprised Ivan could even stay up on top of him.

One final click.

And then silence.

He had never known he could tremble like this. He thought he would vomit.

"You were so _scared_!" Ivan suddenly crooned, and then he threw the gun across the room, and took Ludwig's face within his hands, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes, and this time, Ivan was looking back at him. He was smiling, sloppily. "Hey! It wasn't loaded, you know! I told you it wouldn't hurt! See, I always keep my promises to you. I promised I wouldn't hurt you. And so I didn't. It was a joke! See, it wasn't loaded, calm down."

He shut his eyes, if only to keep from bursting into tears, and Ivan collapsed above him, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

Oh, God.

Oh God, he could not handle this.

Oh God.

He was so close to just breaking down.

Pressing his lips into Ludwig's neck, Ivan muttered, blearily, "It was a joke. Feel your heart! It's going so fast! Oh, you were so scared! Don't be scared of me. I won't hurt you. But you're so brave! You don't even cry. Hey! Don't be angry. It was just a joke. You don't need to be angry. It was just a joke."

And then his speech dissolved into an odd, drunken mess of German and Russian that Ludwig could not understand, and Ivan reached up, running his left hand fervently through his hair as he continued to mutter incoherently.

Ludwig could only lie there, and clench his fingers in the blanket, and it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep himself from dissolving into sobs, because, _Christ_, he had died, he had died.

He was so sure he had died.

He was not brave.

He had died.

He was not brave.

Ivan shifted above him, and then he looked up, chin resting upon Ludwig's collarbone with painful force, and he was still smiling when he whispered, "Look... Why are you so upset? I was only playing with you! Don't be upset, I promised I wouldn't hurt you, remember? Why are you upset?"

_Oh_, wouldn't he just shut up? Would there be no reprieve?

He had died.

A warm hand ran down his neck, falling on top and squeezing, not enough to cut off air, only a gentle grip, and Ivan whispered, in a strange voice, "Why did you go? I didn't want to be alone. You shouldn't have left me alone. You're supposed to stay with me all the time. I can't stand to be alone. I feel so much better when you're here. When you're with me, I don't hear them anymore. When you're gone... Oh, I _hate _it when you're gone..."

Them?

"So long ago, when I was engaged to Natalia, I was so depressed. Those were the worst days of my life. I didn't understand what was wrong with me. I hated everything so much, you know, I was going to kill myself. I didn't, because who would protect Irina? I was never so unhappy... But I feel so much better now, that you're here. I hate when it you're gone."

Ivan shifted again, drawing himself up farther, reaching out and grabbing handfuls of the pillow to steady himself, and when he rested his head on top of Ludwig's, his heaviness constricting Ludwig's chest, and when he spoke again, voice eager and slurred, when he said _those _words...

"I love you."

...it was too much.

He had died.

His head was spinning and his heart was racing and he felt so _sick_, and Ivan was so heavy above him and the smell of vodka was overwhelming and he could still _feel _the gun in his forehead, and no one had ever said _those _words to him except Gilbert.

No one.

Something broke.

Digging his heels in the mattress and kicking his legs weakly, he tried to push up, and with the effort a great, dry sob escaped his throat, and Ivan pounced, sensing his weakness, like he always did.

"Shh, it's alright," Ivan whispered, crawling forward and falling more heavily upon him, clenching gentle fingers in his hair, and for a moment, Ludwig could only lie there and let him run his hands through his hair and then down his neck, too numb to move and chest aching as anxiety set in, and the worst part...

Ivan pulled himself up onto his knees, swaying to and fro as he tried to keep his balance against the alcohol running through his veins, and his legs pinned Ludwig's arms at his sides, his hands gripping Ludwig's face, and then he had leaned down, and crushed their lips together eagerly.

The worst part...

He couldn't move. He tasted vodka, as Ivan's tongue intruded against his own, and Ivan's fingers lowered to the buttons on his shirt and began to fumble with them, clumsily. A painful nip on his lip, and then half of the buttons were undone, and he still couldn't move.

And the worst part was that, had Ivan not put the gun against his head and pulled the trigger, had Ivan not scared him so that he was on the verge of a panic attack, and had Ivan not been so abysmally drunk, he might have given in.

Hadn't he? God, what did Ivan _want _of him? He had given in before. He hadn't moved.

If only because he tired of fighting back against him, and Ivan always won, in the end.

As it was now, struggling to stave of the urge to be sick and feeling his lungs constricting, he only felt trapped and vulnerable and _scared_, and it was just too much.

He was on the verge of a panic attack.

No more pills.

...even if Ivan had said _those _words.

His body woke up, and he struggled.

Ivan didn't seem to notice, or didn't care, and pressed forward harder, and now his hands flew up to his own coat, although he never broke away from his bruising kiss. And then suddenly he tottered, unsteadily, and for a second, the pressure on his arm slackened as Ivan sought to regain his balance.

It was only a second. It was enough.

Reacting quickly, Ludwig managed to break an arm free from beneath him, and then, without thinking, he did something _stupid_, something that he should have _never _done :

He pulled it back, curled his fingers, and slapped Ivan as hard as he could across the face; his fear of Ivan prevented him from clenching his fist all the way.

He shouldn't have done it, but oh God, he could not bear the feel of Ivan above him, that inescapable warmth and the smell of vodka, and the feel of steel. He could not stand it, as the nausea of fear still churned in his stomach. As death's cold hand still lingered above him.

The sharp slap seemed loud and ominous in the room.

The gun was still on the floor.

Everything went quiet, and Ivan stared down at him with a look of complete astonishment.

He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. A moment of immobility.

Ivan's cheek was red.

Irina had gotten away with it...

A creep of dread came over him. The storm was back.

...but he would not.

Ivan came out of his stupor with a vengeance. He pulled his arm back too, but he did not slap; he _punched_.

Hard.

Ivan's fist connected with stunning force, and for a moment, he could only lie there in numb stupor, head aching as Ivan pounced again, but this time in anger.

He tasted blood.

"_What_?" Ivan hissed, pushing his forearm against Ludwig's neck with such force that all air was cut off, "What is it now? Huh? What is it _now_? What's wrong with you? What is it with you? What more do you want of me? What else do I have to say to you? Haven't I told you everything you want to hear? Haven't I? Why'd you hit me, huh? Have I ever hit _you_? Huh? Why'd you _hit _me?"

He shook him, angrily, then his arm withdrew and air returned, and his fist was up in the air again, and Ludwig squinted his eyes shut in preparation for the next blow, chest tightening.

It never came.

After seconds of nothing, he finally dared himself to open his eyes, and when he looked up, Ivan was staring down at him with a calm expression, almost expectant, as though he had had some kind of idea that something like this would eventually happen.

His eyes were cool and guarded. Only tranquility.

It scared him, how quickly Ivan could pass in and out of rage. How calculated and deceiving his façade of complete calm was.

Or was it how calculated and deceiving his façade of rage was?

Sometimes...

It was hard to tell.

Ivan reached out, and traced his finger down Ludwig's split lip, and whispered, "It's alright. It's alright. You were wrong to hit me, but it's alright. I'm not angry anymore." He smiled, as if to prove it, and grabbed Ludwig's collar, pulling him upright and then onto his feet with gentle hands, coaxing, "Here, here, you're alright. You're alright! Oh, I didn't mean to hit you. Look what you made me do." He balled his fist and wiped the blood from Ludwig's chin, and he leaned in, adding, "I forgive you."

Wait.

He could only stare ahead dumbly as Ivan began to pull him unsteadily towards the door.

...who was it that had been in the wrong?

His head hurt.

Maybe he was confused. Maybe Ivan had never really been angry in the first place.

Ivan's hand was firm and warm on his own as he dragged him out the door and then down the halls, and he spoke the entire time.

"I forgive you. You're still new around here, aren't you? I forget sometimes. You just don't know all of the rules, maybe, but that's alright. You'll have them down. Soon. But, oh, I didn't mean to hit you! But you hit me first, you understand? I would _never _hit you, otherwise, just because."

A twisting of halls. A staircase.

Ivan pulled him up.

Where were they going?

...he _had _hit Ivan first. Ivan had only retaliated. And that was only fair.

Ivan had never hit him before, after all.

Another staircase.

He shouldn't have left Ivan alone.

They stopped before a white door, and he realized, blearily, that he was up in that rounded portion he had seen from the ground earlier. The tower, so to speak.

Ivan pulled him into his chest suddenly, in a crushing embrace, and his voice seemed almost regretful as he muttered in his ear, "I've got to leave you alone for a while, like you left me. But don't worry, I'll make sure that nothing bad happens to you. I'll keep you safe."

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a set of keys, and then the door was unlocked, and he pulled it open. Taking Ludwig's hand, he pulled him inside, and the light was far too bright.

Everything was white.

His head was pounding. He was too stunned to even think, let alone move.

Ivan led him to the center of the circular room, and then, with a swift kiss to his forehead, he began to back away. Ludwig could only watch him through squinted eyes, as he fell back closer and closer to the door, and then suddenly Ivan's eyes were boring into his own.

"Don't be scared if you hear things," he suddenly whispered, and the look in his eyes was absolutely indescribable, and it frightened him, how dark Ivan's eyes had become.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked, and Ivan smiled, breathlessly.

"Voices! Don't you ever hear voices? When you're alone? Just don't let them scare you. Remember, I'll be on the outside...waiting. I'll protect you, in the end. I'm the only one that will protect you."

He shuddered, and then Ivan backed inside the frame, and the light was _so _bright.

Blinding.

Everything was white.

"Where are you going?"

Ivan was going to leave him alone again.

...why did everyone end up leaving him alone when he needed them the most?

"I have to go. I have to leave you, just for a while."

First Gilbert.

"Don't be scared."

Then Toris.

"I'll keep you safe."

And now Ivan.

"I'll come back for you. I swear. I'll come back. I'll come back."

But he didn't say _when_, and then he was gripping the handle in his hand.

Ludwig could only stand there in the center of the excruciatingly bright room, arms loose at his sides, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Ivan.

Everything was white. The door slammed shut.

_I'll come back._

It did not open again.

...everyone left him.

It was his fault. He should not have left Ivan alone.

Everything was white.

It was his fault.

There was something wrong with him.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

White.

The first day wasn't so bad.

His head ached from the unrelenting light, and it was cold, and the air was stale, but it wasn't so bad. It was almost _nice_, actually, to be able to be alone for a while.

To finally have some space. To relax a little.

Ludwig spent the first day pacing around, hands in his pockets, squinting in the light, and he was glad that he had some time to think. To be able to walk around without someone holding his hand and whispering in his ear.

The circular room wasn't that big. The size of a large bedroom, maybe, and everything was white. The walls were painted white. The smooth stone floor was white. The ceiling was white. The sealed door was white. There was no doorknob. The endless walls were corner-less, preventing shadows from playing. There was a very small sink, painted white, on the right of the door. And there was one very small window, no bigger than a shoebox. Iron bars (white) stood before it, and behind, a pane of glass. And he didn't understand _why_, because behind the small rectangle of glass there were only cinderblocks. Painted white.

What was the point of a window at all, if the outside world was not visible?

White.

The hours passed by, slowly, and he couldn't tell what time of day it was, for the constant light. No fresh air could get in past the sealed door, and there was no heat. It was cold, and when he felt his strength waning, he sat down on the hard floor, leaned against the wall, and tried to sleep.

And he just knew, as he buried his head in folded arms and drifted, that Ivan would come to get him soon, because in the morning he would wake up, sober, and maybe he wouldn't even remember any of Ludwig's mistakes at all.

Ivan would come for him.

But he didn't.

He waited.

Most of the time, he slept. It was great to be able to sleep, as his body tried to recover from its near-death experience only two days earlier. He caught up on needed rest. The white hurt his eyes when he was awake.

He waited for Ivan, when he woke up and couldn't get back to sleep.

Still, Ivan didn't come.

The headache started.

But he would be strong.

The second day, if his guess was correct, was worse.

The pain in his head was ever intensifying, and there were no colors for his eyes to distinguish. The white walls and white floors began to blur, and then there was just a great white haze, like he was walking around in a blizzard.

Strange, how a lack of color could play tricks on the mind.

Sometimes, when he found himself staring ahead, something began to shift. Sometimes, there were movements.

Ripples in the white horizon.

He closed his eyes, and put his palms above them, knowing that his brain was just tying to compensate because of the bright, monotonous surroundings. He was just hallucinating. That was normal in this kind of circumstance.

Right?

He tried to sleep as much as possible, if only so that he would not have to see the white, and by now, he no longer wanted his alone space.

He was over being able to think. The solitude had worn out its welcome. It had been enough.

Where was Ivan?

He should have come back by now. He wasn't still angry, was he?

Surely not...

Ivan would come soon.

White.

Never ending.

The light was so bright. Relentless. Unforgiving. His eyes hurt from constantly squinting, and there was no way of telling what the hour was. It could have been morning. It could have been noon. It could have been the dead of night.

Who knew?

It was getting harder to sleep.

The white was starting to move around.

When he buried his head in his arms now, sometimes he was certain that he heard someone whispering.

Maybe it was just Ivan.

And yet when he looked up, the door still stood closed.

Ivan had not come for him yet.

He leaned his head back against the wall, and, to distract himself, thought back on memories.

For whatever reason, it was hard to pull them up. He couldn't really think.

When a memory finally did come to him, it wasn't really one that he wanted.

He remembered standing there in front of the university every day, staring at it, knowing that he could never set foot inside. Standing under the sun, watching students go in and out, and dreaming, dreaming, about how life would have been for him if his real parents had kept him.

If he knew his real name. Who he really was.

Standing out in front of the university had been some of the loneliest days of his life.

...where was Ivan?

His head was throbbing.

The hours passed.

He tried to be strong.

The ache behind his eyes was almost unbearable. He felt a little ill.

By the time the third day lurched in, he realized that he had overestimated himself when he had shrugged off Ivan's words so casually back in the car.

Because this _was _torture.

Maybe this was worse than the other awful things he had imagined, because physical torture only hurt his body. Scars could heal.

But this...

He could not bear this assault on his psyche.

He could barely open his eyes, and he almost didn't want to, because when he did, the odd movements from before had become shapes. And sometimes when he glanced over, he could swear that there was someone walking.

Someone was always whispering. Even though he knew he was alone.

Damn.

He rubbed at his eyes, but the rippling didn't stop. He shook his head, but they stayed. Maybe he had just been caught in a particularly vulnerable state. If Ivan had thrown him in here straight off, he was confident that he would have been able to ride it out. He could have stayed above the water.

Not now. His confidence in himself had taken too great a blow.

Where was Ivan?

The hours passed, creeping by as years.

Still, Ivan had not come for him.

Goddammit. Why had he been so stupid? This whole damn thing was his fault.

Ivan didn't make mistakes.

It was his fault.

How did he always end up in these predicaments?

Oh God, it hurt his pride, it did, but he couldn't bear it, and when he finally managed to pull himself up to his feet, staggering over to the door against the blinding white, he threw himself against it, and knocked.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was deep and scratchy from disuse, "Hey, are you there? Ivan, come on. Open the door. Hey, Ivan, come on."

He waited, ear pressed into the door, but there was no sound.

Nothing stirred.

His desperation was growing.

He wanted out. He couldn't stay here.

He knocked again, louder.

"Ivan! Are you out there or what? Come _on_, let me out already! I'm... I'm sorry."

Still, there was nothing.

He lost his temper, and drew up his fists, slamming them down onto the door as hard as he could, and someone was whispering in his ear, and he had to get out _now_, "Ivan! Open the goddamn door! Open the door! Ivan! I know you hear me! Let me _out_! Goddammit, Ivan! Open the fucking _DOOR_! Come on!"

There was no movement from outside, and he could only sink down against the door, pressing his palms against his ears as the whispering grew ever louder.

Christ.

Don't be scared. That was what Ivan had said.

Just don't listen. It was hard.

Then, as his fists ached from the contact with the door, he recalled a sudden memory that had long since been forgotten.

It came out of nowhere.

He had been fourteen. Maybe he had been foolhardy, or maybe he had just been a dreamer, like Toris, but when Gilbert had pulled on his coat, ready to go into the city, already wild-haired and sloppy from alcohol, he had tried to reach out and grab a hold of him to prevent him from leaving. Gilbert _always _went out, always. Couldn't he have just spent one night at home?

Couldn't they ever just sit there, together?

Gilbert's temper was unpredictable at best, and when Ludwig had reached out and grabbed his coat, he had whirled around like a viper, and had shoved Ludwig backwards so hard that he had fallen, throwing his arms out backwards at the last second to save his head from hitting the floor.

Gilbert had stared down at him, and had looked horrified. He'd extended a hand.

Ludwig, hurt and angry, had slapped it away and pulled himself up, shouting at Gilbert to just fuckin' _go_ already.

Just leave.

Gilbert was gone, leaving him alone, with only throbbing wrists and a bruised arm for company.

_He hardly even remembers you now._

Gilbert hadn't come back until dawn.

...he hadn't thought of that in years.

The static was growing louder.

Gilbert.

Gilbert was supposed to protect him. That's what big brothers were for.

The hours passed.

And yet...

It was so easy to remember all the great times between him and Gilbert. It was easy to remember the nights when he had been a child, and Gilbert had held him close in bed and told him stories. It was easy to remember Gilbert's hands, when they had ran through his hair or caressed his cheek or grabbed his waist. It was easy to remember Gilbert's smooth voice, confident and sure and adoring, as it had whispered in his ear and told him, over and over, how much he loved him, and how they would always be together. It was easy to remember Gilbert's eyes, bright and expressive and easy-going, and how they always followed him protectively no matter where he went. And it was easy to remember Gilbert's presence, always hovering over him, surrounding him with the support and the care and the encouragement he needed to thrive.

_What kind of brother is that?_

He had tried so hard not to remember the other things.

It was easy to remember how much he loved Gilbert. It was even easier to try and forget how much he had _hated _him sometimes.

So why, now, was he thinking of these things?

Oh, God.

He had tried to forget.

Why was he suddenly remembering all of the _terrible _times between him and Gilbert? Why was he remembering the nights when he had sat up by the window, watching and waiting for Gilbert to come staggering home? Why was he remembering Gilbert's hands, when they had lashed out at him in random moments of anger and drunkenness, pulling at his hair and slapping his cheek and shoving at his chest when they had fought? Why was he remembering Gilbert's voice, loud and harsh and spiteful, when it had screamed at him in fits of rage and told him how useless he was, and how he didn't understand _anything_? Why was he remembering Gilbert's eyes, dark and angry and wrathful, and how they had stared him down when they argued? Why was he remembering Gilbert's presence, overwhelming him, dragging him down with so many problems and so much stress and never any rest?

Gilbert would always be his big brother.

But that didn't erase the nights when Gilbert had come home drunk, or high, or both, when he had flown into rages and fits, when he had domineered and controlled, even though his mind had tried to erase them.

It didn't erase the time when he had brought a girl that he had met on the street home when he had been thirteen, and Gilbert had been so furious and so _jealous _that he had promptly kicked her out and slammed the door in her face, screaming at her so terribly that she had run home crying.

It didn't erase the time that he and Roderich had been talking on the phone, and Gilbert had heard Roderich ask if he would like to come up and stay in Vienna with him for a while, and Gilbert ripped the cord right out of the wall and had thrown his drink into Ludwig's face, accusing him of going behind his back and _betraying _him and that he didn't _really _love him, not really, if he was still speaking to Roderich over the phone.

Gilbert.

Oh God.

Oh, God, he didn't want to remember all of this.

Gilbert couldn't help it. There was something wrong up in his head.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

Digging his heels into the stone floor, he squinted his eyes shut, and then Gilbert was whispering in his ear, and he shook his head to clear it.

Why was _he_ here? He did not want to speak to Gilbert right now. Not in the mood.

'_Ludwig, look what you've gotten yourself into now_!'

"It's your fault," he grumbled, grabbing handfuls of his hair, and Gilbert laughed, coarsely.

'_Oh, man, I shoulda known that you can't take care of yourself. See, I always have to protect you. Just look where you're at now. I told you..._'

"It's your _fault_," he repeated, more forcefully, and now suddenly the pain in his head was enhanced by a rush of anger.

It was Gilbert's fault that he was here in the first place.

Stupid, stupid Gilbert.

Reckless.

'_You can't do anything without me. I'm your big brother, remember?_'

...he had been sixteen, and in the heat of an argument he had told Gilbert that he was a _terrible _brother, that _he _was the one who could never do anything right, and Gilbert had stood still for a moment, chest heaving in fury, and then he had drawn back his hand and punched Ludwig across the face, and when Ludwig had fallen Gilbert had burst into tears.

He had been seventeen the first time he had hit Gilbert back.

The day he had moved out.

Gilbert had been so angry, screaming about how the whole thing was Roderich's fault, that they would be better off if Roderich were dead. And those words had been too much, because Roderich meant _so_ much to him.

'It's not his fault!' he had said, and Gilbert had just kept on.

Saying awful things about Roderich. Roderich had been his idol, as much as Gilbert had been his brother. It had been too much, and he had been hurting too, at the thought of leaving Gilbert for the first time.

He couldn't help it; he had turned around, and punched Gilbert in the nose. As Gilbert had lied there on the floor, blood spilling between his fingers and in shock, Ludwig had grabbed his things and stalked out.

He and Gilbert hadn't talked for months after that.

Gilbert's voice was getting louder.

'_If you could just listen to me, none of this would have happened. You don't ever listen_.'

That jerk. That arrogant, presumptuous, self-centered _jerk_.

He had done all of this for Gilbert.

Because Gilbert was the one who couldn't ever listen.

He had surrendered himself, for Gilbert's sake.

Because Gilbert was the one who couldn't take care of himself.

Gilbert didn't know anything.

"Gilbert," he spat, as he threw his hands up again to cover his ears, kicking his legs irritably, "Go away! Go _away_! I'm so—I'm so _angry _with you right now! Oh, God, Gilbert, go away! Shut up, I can't _stand _to hear you right now!"

And for a second, Gilbert's voice died down, just a little, and he just wished that Ivan would come and get him and take him out of this nightmare.

He had not wanted to disturb memories that had been buried for years.

The burning spite in his chest was painful.

At least Ivan did everything right. Ivan never made mistakes. Gilbert made so many there was no possible way to count them all.

At least Ivan did not pick fights with him. Gilbert took everything so personally.

At least Ivan had never hit him before that night. But Gilbert had, on several occasions.

Their relationship had always been volatile.

To say the least.

One minute Gilbert would grab his waist and pull him in and kiss his cheek and croon words of affection, and then the next he was angry again, thinking that the world was conspiring against him and that nobody understood him and that he was better than everyone, and that Ludwig could never have anyone else in his life because Gilbert was the only one that was good enough to be around him.

Where was Ivan?

He had thought he would welcome Gilbert.

But he just wanted him gone.

Where was Ivan?

Gilbert's voice was back, louder than ever, and now he was so irritated that he could feel his heart pounding in anger in his chest, and he drew back his fist, slamming it into the wall as he shrieked, "Gilbert, go _AWAY_!"

There was short silence.

He squinted his eyes.

Whispers in his ear.

And then the light went out.

The sun above died, and everything was cast into night.

The light went out.

The whispers stopped, and the pitch-black and the sound of silence was so beautiful that he fell forward, collapsed onto the floor, and slipped into unconsciousness.

The hours passed.

His headache subsided, if only a little.

He lied on the cold floor, and slept.

He lost track of the days.

The dark had been appreciated at first, much like the solitude had, but it quickly wore out its welcome. The bright light of before had hurt his eyes, but at least he could see.

Now, as he pulled himself to his feet, he could not see a thing, not a thing, even if he waved his fingers before his face there was nothing. He reached out, blindly, staggering here and there are he tried to figure out his surroundings, and his head hurt worse than ever.

The darkness was suffocating.

Maybe worse than the light.

When he found the wall, he leaned against it, and even thought it was cold, he reached down and clumsily took off his boots and his socks, if only because he needed to feel where he was going, and it helped him gather his bearings more easily. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned from Ivan's attempts. He hadn't even considered buttoning them back up.

Ivan might get angry again.

Only darkness.

He was hungry. His chest hurt.

Time passed.

Then, after who knew how many days, he started seeing things again.

Only this time, in the dark, they were excruciatingly clear.

Times past.

He looked up at one point, and saw himself. As he was before, standing there in clean clothes, hair whipping in the wind, staring up at the university.

Oh, what he would have given back then, to be a part of it. He had idolized Roderich, and had wanted nothing more in the world to follow in his footsteps and become an ambassador.

But he couldn't.

He didn't even know who he was. What his name was. Where he had been born.

Nothing.

Where could he get in this world, with no identity?

But Roderich, sensing his melancholy, had tried his best, and had taught him so much, everything about the world of diplomacy, and Ludwig had hung on his every word, drinking it in and wishing, above all else, that Roderich had really been his father.

It wasn't fair. Who could choose where they were born? How different his life would have been, had he truly been born to Roderich and Erzsébet.

It wasn't fair.

He was nobody. Nameless.

With no past. And now, no future.

He had tried to be a good person, despite it all. He had only ever wanted to help people.

So many people with good names and good blood did horrible things.

It wasn't fair.

The darkness dragged on.

He tried to sleep, but failed, and when he opened his eyes again, suddenly everything was white.

It didn't hurt his eyes this time, and when he stood up and tried to walk and bumped into a wall, he realized that he was just hallucinating again.

Everything was still dark.

Not in his mind.

He walked around in circles, muttering to himself to fill the silence, and then, as he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper, he suddenly turned around, and realized he was not alone.

Gilbert had come to visit him.

Standing against the crackling white, silvery hair shining and crimson eyes calm, he stood there with crossed arms, and for a moment, Ludwig could only stare at him, too disheartened to move.

Gilbert wasn't real.

He knew it.

Even so, when Gilbert took a step forward and dropped his arms, his air loose and relaxed, Ludwig couldn't help it; he stumbled over to Gilbert, quickly, and took his hands.

Cold.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier," he said, beseechingly, and Gilbert smiled.

Oh, thank God that at least Gilbert had come in one of those good moods. The way he was when Ludwig loved him.

Gilbert was the best brother in the world when he was thinking straight. When he wasn't going crazy.

'_It's alright_,' Gilbert said, casually, and shrugged a shoulder, '_It's my fault_.'

Gilbert's hands were _cold_. And even though his body knew that there was nothing within his hands, his mind said that there was, and he could feel a strange numbness, a tingling almost, but it was enough.

Better than nothing.

'_Hey, West, sorry I hit you earlier! Oh, man, I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't mean to_.'

That was nothing new. Gilbert had always regretted his actions later on.

Not that it stopped him from repeating them.

But he was too tired to be angry, and he was so grateful not to be alone anymore.

He had missed _this_ Gilbert. The good one.

Ivan still hadn't come for him.

Gilbert fell in and pressed his cold forehead against Ludwig's, hands resting on the back of his neck, and for a minute, he could swear that he was back in Berlin, and that all of this had just been a bad dream.

He missed Gilbert.

'_See? I told you we'd always be together._'

A dream? Was he dreaming?

His head hurt, that much was certain.

He felt confused, even as Gilbert's thumbs ran over his skin in circular motions.

Had Ivan not been real, then?

Ivan's warm hands.

'_I'll always be around to protect you. No matter what_.'

It hadn't been a dream.

...maybe he was crazy.

Gilbert wasn't real. Ivan was. Why hadn't Ivan come back for him yet?

Gilbert was whispering.

He listened.

'_Ludwig, I love you. But I'm so mad at you, you know. How could you? You know that we're supposed to be together forever! How could you? He tried to kill me, and you hold his hand_.'

For a second, he bowed his head in shame, and it was true.

Maybe he had betrayed Gilbert.

Betrayed Gilbert by letting Ivan run his fingers through his hair, and say those words to him when no one else should, by letting Ivan pull him in, by letting Ivan press him down into the bed, by giving in...

But it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't his fault.

Ivan was so overwhelming. He had no control here. And it was almost entrancing, to no longer be in control. For someone else to make all the decisions.

In the back of his mind, the dark part of him thought it was better to be with Ivan, who could at least make better decisions than Gilbert could. Who could take better care of him, maybe, and who was always in control.

"I'm sorry Gilbert. I couldn't help it."

He was no match for Ivan.

Gilbert had backed away, shaking his head, and the disappointment in his eyes was almost too much to bear.

'_How could you_?'

He was weak.

"I'm sorry."

'..._oh, it's alright. I still love you. I always will_.'

He wanted to burst into tears.

It _hurt_, to love Gilbert so much and still sometimes hate him. Conflicting, and confusing. He loved Gilbert.

Why couldn't things ever work out for them?

_'You still love me too, right_?'

He nodded his head, fervently.

"Oh, of course I do, Gilbert. I really do."

_'I'm glad. Let's not fight anymore_.'

All he wanted.

If Gilbert would just stop drinking...

...he had been fifteen, and had decided to track Gilbert down through the vast city. Poking his head in and out of bar after bar, he had finally found him after hours, and had gone inside, where Gilbert was slumped up in some corner, laughing with some woman and staggering in drunkenness. Ludwig had slunk inside and snuck over to him, trying not to be seen as he wound through the rowdy crowd.

He had finally gotten over to Gilbert and grabbed his arm, hissing, 'Let's go home!'

Gilbert had squinted over at him, and then smiled, as he had cried, in a slur, 'Ludwig! Look at you! Never thought I'd see ya in _here_!' He had laughed, and when Ludwig had tried to pull him, he had stood his ground.

Then he had reversed the tables, and with one yank, it had been Gilbert who was dragging Ludwig, into a dark corner.

Ludwig could smell the alcohol on Gilbert's breath as he had pinned him in, heavy against his chest, and there had been a smile on Gilbert's face as he had leaned in and whispered, 'I'm glad you came out. Let's have some fun together, eh? You're old enough.'

It had scared him a little, then, the way Gilbert's hand had grabbed his jaw, the way Gilbert's lips had brushed against his own as he said, 'Open up.'

In his hand, he had held a little piece of paper.

Ludwig remembered feeling so helpless, and so _trapped_, as Gilbert had tried very hard to coax him into opening his mouth so that he could put the paper under his tongue.

'Come on, it's alright! It's just a little bit. Your tongue gets a little numb, that's all.'

He remembered the way his heart had raced as Gilbert's hand had run up and down his neck in a very odd manner, whispering in his ear in a soothing, adoring manner, and he remembered, more than anything else, that he had very nearly _done_ it.

He had almost opened his mouth.

He had just wanted Gilbert to be proud of him.

More than anything.

But in the end, drunk and high Gilbert had staggered, and Ludwig had used the opportunity to slip out from beneath him and drag him off.

Gilbert didn't remember any of it the next day. Maybe that was for the best. Gilbert wasn't himself when he was intoxicated.

All that mattered was that Gilbert loved him.

_'Come back home, Ludwig. I miss you_.'

He looked up.

And then Gilbert flickered, as though he were suddenly standing behind a shield of static, and then somehow he was at Ludwig's side, whispering words in his ear that he could not quite grasp.

Someone else was here now.

He could feel it.

More static.

'_Ludwig, look_.'

He squinted his eyes and, standing there where Gilbert had been, there was Toris.

He stood there, pale and dressed in white and smiling, the dark circles visible under his eyes, his hair messy and uncombed, and he waved a hand, beckoning Ludwig over.

Toris.

He was glad. He felt better when Toris was with him.

He took a step.

'_Look_!'

Toris held up his hands.

Blood was dripping everywhere.

Shivering, Ludwig watched with a lurid fascination as Toris walked over to the tiny, barred window, and he reached his slender hands out through the bars, laying his bloody palms on the pane of glass.

'_I broke the glass_,' Toris said, and Ludwig braced his feet and stumbled over, groping blindly through the dark, even though the images in his head were a burning, blinding white, and when he felt the bars, he gripped them.

Toris turned to him, and when he looked over too, Toris' nose rested against his cheek.

He was cold. Everything was cold.

He felt better when Toris was with him.

A shatter.

Gilbert watched silently from behind.

He looked down, and then suddenly there was a shard of glass in Toris' hands, and he raised it up, and with one great blow he stabbed it into the cinder blocks that shielded the window from the outside world. He did it again, and again, and the glass buried itself into his palms; a warm spurt of liquid shot out and fell onto Ludwig's face.

Blood everywhere.

He reached up without thinking, running his fingers through the hot crimson.

Toris struck once more, and then fell still.

The blocks stood strong.

'_I tried to dig through the wall_,' Toris whispered, and now he threw the shard down on the floor and reached up, his shredded, bleeding palms cupping Ludwig's face. '_Anything to see outside. To see color_.'

And then he pulled back, and Ludwig could only watch in open-mouthed amazement as Toris walked over to the glimmering white wall and put his hands against it. And then he stepped to the side, and slid his palms against the white, leaving streaks of dark red and small pieces of flesh. He walked until he had circled the entire room, and then he turned, arms in the air as he met Ludwig's wide eyes.

'_See? Color. I beat it. I beat it_.'

He fell to his knees, and held out his hands, like a mother calling her child. Ludwig fell, too, and crawled over to him, and Toris gripped his hands within his own. He was so cold, despite the warm blood running down his arms. He leaned in, pressing his forehead into Ludwig's just like Gilbert had, and Ludwig closed his eyes as Toris' weak, ghostly voice filled his ears.

'_Don't look. Don't look. Just close your eyes. Don't look. Don't look_—_'_

A blinding pain in his hand.

A shatter of glass.

He opened his eyes.

Toris was gone.

Gilbert was gone.

He was alone, in the dark, and in his delirium he had reached through the bars, just like Toris, and had shattered the glass with his fist.

He could feel blood dripping down his hand.

_Don't look. Don't look._

He groped around, and took up a shard in his hand.

But he did not take it to the cinder blocks as Toris had; gripping it tightly, he pulled it back, and it was with a weak smile that he staggered backwards and fell against the wall, clutching the shard in his hands and holding it to his chest.

Everyone was gone.

_Don't look._

Oh God, oh God, oh God, where was everyone? Where was everyone? Where had Toris gone? Why had Gilbert left him? When would Ivan come back?

He was alone.

When would Ivan come back?

Ivan.

Where was Ivan?

Ivan.

Oh, God—

He sat there for hours, in the dark, and he wondered if Ivan had forgiven him yet.

How much longer before Ivan wasn't angry anymore?

He hadn't meant to hit him. It had just happened.

He slept, fitfully, and never for a second did he let go of the glass.

He needed to have something in his hands.

Darkness.

His head was on fire.

Hours and days and years passed, and a noise suddenly startled him from his sleep.

The shard was digging into his palms, and he looked up, wearily, and then suddenly everything was white again, and someone else was kneeling before him.

He squinted his eyes to focus, and smiled, eagerly.

"Alfred."

It was Alfred, crouched in front of him, palm resting against the wall to support his weight as he hovered above Ludwig, golden hair alight and eyes nearly silver in the bright white, and he was dressed in white, too.

His glasses were gone.

But Alfred was not smiling.

'_Oh, Ludwig. How could you? Red. It's all red._'

Alfred's eyes bored painfully into his own, and he was ashamed of himself.

Red.

Alfred reached out, and ran hands down the fabric of his shirt, his brow stern.

He looked down, and realized he was still in the Soviet uniform that Ivan had given him, and he could no longer meet Alfred's eyes.

Alfred had told him, over and over again...

"I'm sorry," he moaned, and bowed his head, and Alfred's hands were suddenly around his own, and he raised them upward.

_'I told you, didn't I_?'

"Sorry."

Ludwig let Alfred lead his hands up and up, until they had reached the level of his collarbone.

The glass was still clutched in his grasp.

_'I told you that you had to be careful around them. They're dangerous_.'

A silence, as the edge of the glass came ever closer to his skin. He did not notice, having eyes only for Alfred, wishing that he would just smile.

Alfred's smile was so comforting. Was he so angry that he couldn't smile? Did he hate this uniform so that he couldn't just sit down and loop their arms together and rest his head on Ludwig's shoulder as he had done so many times before?

His hands were trembling when he finally whispered, beseechingly, "I know. I know. Better... Better dead than Red. I'm sorry. I tried not to. I really did."

He had tried so hard. So hard.

But what else could he have done?

Alfred finally smiled at him then, that friendly, easy smile that he had missed, and slowly he began to push Ludwig's hands backward.

Ludwig was caught under his gaze.

The shard of glass pricked the skin of his chest.

A drop of red.

'_It'll be easier_,' Alfred whispered, and pushed the glass again, '_It'll be easier this way. Trust me. Trust me. You have to trust me. A little more.'_

He trusted Alfred.

The prick turned into a warm throb. Alfred pushed his hands.

'_Come on! That's it! Just a little farther. Trust me_.'

He trusted Alfred with his life.

The first friend he had ever had in his life.

The only friend.

The glass dug in deeper.

A terrible, burning pain, and he cried out as a flood of warmth ran down his chest, and then Alfred was gone.

He looked down, dumbly, at the shard of glass sticking out from beneath his collar bone.

A moment of confusion, and then he pulled it out.

The blood spurted.

He held the shard of glass in his left hand, and covered the wound with his right.

Why?

Why?

Alfred had never tried to _hurt _him before...

He kicked out his legs, as the blood ran through his fingers, and he looked around. The blinding white was gone. Everything was dark again.

He could not stand being alone in the dark.

He could smell the blood, heavy around him.

Resting his head against the wall, he closed his eyes as his body began to tremble.

Oh, God, he was going crazy.

He was going crazy.

_Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy crazy crazycrazycrazy_.

Oh, God, he would never make Ivan angry again.

The hours passed. Everything was dark.

He could feel himself getting weaker and weaker as the time went by, and with every second his thoughts were getting stranger.

Darker.

He felt further away from himself than he had ever been.

And then Gilbert came back to see him again.

This time it was not as welcome as the last, and Gilbert was in one of _those _moods.

When Ludwig hated him.

The white light lit everything up, and he pulled himself to his feet as Gilbert marched over to him, wild-eyed and shouting, and it was with a numb sense of lethargy that he kept his back to Gilbert.

'_Where are you going? You turned your back on me, didn't you? First you left with Roderich_...'

He did not want to fight.

'..._and now you're out here, in Russia! How could you? You left me, just to be with him? You think he's so great, huh? Do you? Are you stupid! You can't have anyone else, Ludwig! We're supposed to be together, remember? No one else will take care of you like I can. How could you?_'

One hand over his chest and the other gripping the glass, Ludwig walked this way and that, and Gilbert followed him like a hound, reaching out every so often and shoving at his back.

Gilbert was always like this. Couldn't they ever just be normal?

"Leave me alone, Gilbert," he finally managed, but Gilbert didn't.

It got worse.

'_I raised you better than that, didn't I? What have I told you about them? Look at you! What are you wearing_?'

"Go away."

'_You're no better than they are! Traitor_.'

Traitor.

But he only wore this uniform for Gilbert. Why didn't Gilbert understand? It was all his fault.

"Gilbert, go away."

He clenched the glass in his hand, his patience waning.

'_You know what he wants, don't you? He'll fuck around with you for a little while, and then what? He'll shoot you_.'

He closed his eyes, shoulders slumped as he shook his head stubbornly.

Gilbert didn't understand. He never had.

"He's not like that. He won't hurt me."

'_You're out here, for what? To be his whore? You don't ever listen to me! You don't know anything about the world! You never did. You're nothing to him. Don't you get it? Think about it!_'

What did Gilbert know?

How could he know anything about the world if Gilbert was always hovering over him? If Gilbert never let him out of his sight? If Gilbert was always so possessive.

Obsessed.

Something had never been right up in Gilbert's head.

"Leave me alone! I'm so tired of you, Gilbert. Just leave me alone."

'_You're nothing to him. He doesn't love you_.'

No, no, that wasn't right. Ivan had said _those _words, hadn't he?

Oh, God, his head hurt so badly.

"You don't know anything about it," he growled, and now he was shaking, and Gilbert was behind him, so close that he feel him, but he just kept _on_.

Sometimes...

He hated Gilbert.

'_You're so stupid, Ludwig! He doesn't love you, you're so stupid_!'

"_Shut up_!" he screeched, and without thinking, he gripped the glass in his hand and whirled around, aiming for Gilbert, too angry to consider the possible consequences of his actions.

He had never been so angry.

Fuckin' Gilbert never let him _be_, even after he was gone.

He was so tired of only living for Gilbert.

He swung.

The glass gleamed in the bright light.

But nothing happened.

The glass passed right through Gilbert's neck, and he flickered again like static, and only shook his head.

'_Look at you_.'

And then it struck Ludwig like lightening, what he had done—what he _could _have done—and the glass fell from his fingers as he began to tremble.

Oh, Christ, if Gilbert had been real he would have _killed _him. He would have murdered his own brother.

He would have become everything he hated. He would have killed him.

He had never known that he was capable of this.

Something like this.

'_Look at you. Who are you? You're so stupid_.'

He fell to his knees, and moaned, "I'm sorry!"

But it was too late.

Gilbert had left him.

It was dark again.

Oh, God, what had he done?

He had the potential within him to be everything Ivan was. He would have killed Gilbert.

Was this who he really was?

Where was Ivan? Had these things been there within him all along? Ivan brought out the worst in him.

...or maybe it was Gilbert who brought out the worst in him.

If they could just stop fighting.

...he had been ten, and Gilbert had held a bottle of alcohol in his hand. Ludwig had stepped into the room, and when Gilbert had seen him, he had set the bottle down, looking a little abashed. And then Gilbert had called him over, and he had crawled into Gilbert's lap, reaching up to play with his hair as Gilbert arched his neck up to kiss him upon the nose.

'You know what?' he had said, and Ludwig had looked into his eyes when Gilbert grabbed his chin in a gentle grip. 'When my mom and dad died, I started drinkin' this stuff. But now that you're here, I feel a lot better.' Gilbert had kissed him again, and added, 'I'm tryin' to stop. I think I can, with you here. I really love you, kiddo. You're all I've got. I'd do anything for you.'

And Gilbert had tried his best to stop. He just hadn't been able to.

His throat was dry.

How long had he been here?

Weeks? Months?

Years?

Had Ivan forgotten him?

Maybe Ivan didn't really love him, like Gilbert said.

He was alone again.

He fell forward, pressing his face into the floor as he whispered to himself just to fill the silence, and the hours passed and passed and passed, and it occurred to him that maybe the glass had passed right through Gilbert because Gilbert was real, and maybe he wasn't.

Maybe Gilbert was locked in the room, and _he _was just a hallucination. Maybe he had died, and Gilbert was seeing him as a ghost.

Maybe.

He was having trouble distinguishing what was real and what was not. He was cold. He was alone.

He didn't want to be alone anymore.

If only Ivan would come back...

He was falling again.

His mind felt like it was struggling through a thick fog.

It was getting harder to breathe. The air was stale.

And right when he could feel himself starting to slip down again, Roderich and Erzsébet came to visit him.

Oh, thank God!

He was so lonely. He was alone.

A hand on his arm.

He needed someone...

Anyone.

'_Come on, Ludwig, get up_,' Roderich whispered in his ear, and pulled him upright onto his knees. He looked up, and _oh_, Roderich's face was so beautiful, lit up by the white lights and smiling down at him.

The closest thing he had ever had to a father.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around Roderich's waist, burying his face into his shirt and nearly bursting into tears. Roderich placed a hand on his head, like he had so many years ago, and then someone else said, at his ear, '_Look at you! You're so pale_!'

He looked over, and Erzsébet was beside him, on her knees, and their noses touched. Roderich reached out his other hand and rested it on the top of her head, and Ludwig was suddenly eight years old again, lost and cold and alone on the streets.

And Roderich and Erzsébet had come to his rescue again.

Like they had before.

He smiled as Erzsébet lifted up and kissed his damp forehead.

'_Let go, Ludwig. Just let go.'_

Roderich ran his fingers through his hair.

'_It's alright. To just go to sleep. Close your eyes. Look at you, you're so tired_.'

He was, _so _tired, and he closed his eyes and held on to them for dear life, and they were warm and close and loving, and oh _God _weren't they real?

Was he real?

Ha.

He remembered.

He had always wondered why Gilbert had never let him go a real school. Why he had to be homeschooled. But he had given it his all anyway, and had let Gilbert sit there on the floor with him and help him with his homework, and then mail the tests off.

The papers came back days later, fully marked and edited.

Gilbert had always smiled at him, and said, 'You're so smart!'

He had done the work dutifully.

Years later, when he was sixteen, he had learned the truth.

The 'teacher' that had marked his tests?

Roderich. They had just wanted him to feel like a normal kid.

And, beyond the disappointment and the sadness, he had been glad, then, that Gilbert and Roderich had been able to work together for something.

Even just that. He had gone to Roderich and sat down before him, and asked him why.

And Roderich had just looked so _sad_.

He had tried to explain to Ludwig that he had had little recourse. With no birth certificate, no papers, no name... What else could they have done?

Roderich had tried so hard.

He remembered that first day he had moved out, after that awful fight with Gilbert, when Roderich and Erzsébet had helped him settle into his first apartment.

Roderich had been beaming the whole time.

'I'm so proud of you,' he had said, and Ludwig hadn't understood then _why_.

What had there been to be proud of? He couldn't have done it alone. The apartment was in Roderich's name.

Roderich paid the bill.

He had just stood there, as Roderich placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he had just wanted to cry.

Why be proud of him? He wasn't anyone.

No one.

He had no papers. He couldn't even find a job, and every shred of money he had ever earned had been by working off the books.

Dumb things that kids did. Mowing yards, washing dishes, shoveling snow.

What else could he do?

He was nobody.

And he had said as much that day, still upset over hitting Gilbert for that first time, as he bowed his head and moaned, miserably, 'Why do you do all of this for me? I'm not anything to you. You don't even know who I am. How could you ever be proud of me?'

And it was true, but Roderich had grabbed his arm all the same, and had shaken him so that he would look up.

He couldn't ever remember seeing Roderich looking so stern and yet somehow so vulnerable, and his eyes had glistened behind his glasses as he had said, in a very strict, if not thick, voice, 'Because you're the only son I'll ever have.'

Roderich had hugged him.

And he _had_ cried then.

All he had ever wanted was a real family.

He was _so_ tired.

Roderich's fingers ran through his hair.

That apartment was gone. He was in this little room now.

'_I missed you so much when you left_,' Roderich suddenly lamented, as his hands ran down to take up Ludwig's face and force his eyes up. _'I wanted you to stay. We could have been a family_.'

"I'm sorry. Gilbert was all alone."

He had always hated being torn between Roderich and Gilbert. How could he ever take sides, when he loved both of them? When he would have given his life for either one of them?

He wished that they would have taken his feelings into more consideration when they had fought.

That they had thought about how _he_ felt when they screamed at each other.

_'I'll always be here when you need me, Ludwig. Don't let Gilbert wear you down_.'

The fingers were suddenly gone.

And when Ludwig looked up, they were gone, too.

But he could still hear Roderich's voice, as though it were right next to him.

'_International negotiations are so fragile, Ludwig. Just like you. Here. Let's study a little. I know how much you like this kind of stuff_...'

Everything was black again.

He dug his heels into the floor, scraping the skin on the stone, and he pushed back until the had hit the wall. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in them and began to rock back and forth, as Roderich tested his knowledge of foreign sympathies and ethics, and he blurted the answers aloud.

Even though he was alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

He spoke until his voice was hoarse and rough and his throat sore, and then he fell still in exhaustion and slipped into unconsciousness.

The days passed.

Every hour was agony. Every minute was torture. Every second was _hell_.

No one had come to visit him again.

He felt sick.

Strange.

He walked around in circles in the room, cutting his feet raw on the shattered glass, bumping into the walls every so often, and when he could take no more monotony he grabbed up another shard of glass and held it in his hands. He spoke to it, but it did not speak back.

But it was sharp.

And when he pressed the edge of it into his arm, the pain made him _feel _much more real than he thought he was.

He was getting weaker. He had stopped drinking.

And even though his body was screaming for water, his brain was just too blurry and lethargic to fumble around in the dark for it.

It hurt to breathe.

His brain _hurt_, all the time.

Like a fire that he could not put out.

The days passed.

He could not remember what anything looked like; there was only black. He could not remember what anything smelled like; the air was stale and getting thinner and thinner. He could not remember what the world sounded like; there was only a crushing silence.

Sometimes, he could not remember who he was.

Ha! Funny. He had _never_ known who he was.

How stupid...

He struggled to catch his breath. The air was becoming spent.

The door just wouldn't open. The end was getting closer. He could feel himself slipping down the slope towards complete insanity.

Days passed.

Ivan had not come for him.

He lied on the floor, on his side, completely spent as he came close to his limit, and finally, mercifully, Gilbert came back to see him.

In a good mood.

He had forgiven him for his earlier trespass.

'_Lutz, why didn't you come visit me_?'

He opened his eyes after a great struggle, and the bright light was back.

Gilbert lied next to him, head propped up on his hand, and he was watching Ludwig with those expressive crimson eyes that Ludwig had always loved when they were calm.

His other hand ran up and down Ludwig's side, affectionately.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice barely audible even over the silence, and he tried to reach out, but his hand fell short.

He just couldn't move. He had nothing left.

Maybe Gilbert had just come to see him off.

'_You didn't finish your homework, did you_?' Gilbert chided, and he could only twitch his head.

"Sorry...big brother."

'_That's alright. I'll finish it for you_.'

He tried to smile.

Gilbert had done his best. Even if his best hadn't been very good.

Gilbert had made so many mistakes, but he was only human.

A hand on his face. Gilbert was above him, whispering in his ear.

He closed his eyes. His chest hurt.

A cool, gentle kiss upon his lips.

'_Ludwig, I love you_.'

"I love you too," he managed to moan, and when he tried to reach his hand up farther towards Gilbert, suddenly he was gone.

Gone.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

He couldn't bear it.

Gilbert was gone. He would never see him again.

_Why did you leave me?_

Resting his face on the floor, he dug his fingers into the stone and gave up.

He burst into tears.

He could not remember the last time he had cried before this whole mess.

He gave up.

It was time to let go. He was ready for it all to be over.

If he could have done things over again...

He would have tried harder to make Gilbert go back to the doctor. So they would have had more time together.

Gilbert had been everything. His life. He had lived for Gilbert.

Gilbert was gone.

Why bother anymore?

Gilbert had left him.

As he lay there quivering and trembling and sobbing and whispering to no one, suddenly the light on the ceiling came to life like the sun.

The door began to creak open.

A split second of incomprehension, and then he could only shriek and bury his face in his bloody palms as the force of the light tore his deprived eyes and brain and lit them up like an inferno.

It was too bright.

It was too bright.

Turn it off.

He writhed this way and that on the floor, cutting himself on the fallen glass, screaming and kicking his legs, and _oh God_, he could have died right there from the pain in his head. _Never_ had he felt such pain. Not ever. It cut through him like a knife, and it was not until someone had knelt down next to him and pushed his face into their chest that he finally came down enough to realize what was happening.

Pain.

He breathed in a familiar cologne.

Pain.

Ivan.

Pain.

Ivan.

Ivan had come back for him.

Like he had promised.

Shaking so hard he couldn't breathe, he grabbed handfuls of Ivan's coat, sobbing and doing everything he could to keep his eyes away from the merciless light, and Ivan leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

"It's alright. It's alright. I've got you. See? I told you I would come back."

A voice.

A _real_ voice.

It was music to his ears.

He tried to speak, but only a high-pitched whimper came out, and Ivan was suddenly running a soothing hand up and down his back, and whispered in his ear, "You're alright. How do you feel? It hurts, doesn't it?"

He nodded into Ivan's coat, unable to speak, and barely able to think.

"You don't want this to happen again, do you?"

He shook his head.

White-hot pain.

He could have died.

"I don't want that either. I hate seeing you like this, but I had to do it. You know I had to do it, don't you? It's your fault. I didn't want to, but you forced me. But it will all be alright now. I'm here. And you'll behave from now on, won't you? So that I won't have to put you in here again."

Again?

Oh God, no, no, no, no.

He could not do this again.

Not again.

Oh God, he would do anything Ivan wanted, anything at all, to avoid going through this again.

The worst moments of his life, on a constant loop?

He'd stick the glass in his neck.

He nodded again, and he realized now, as he clung to Ivan's coat blindly, unfathomable pain shooting through his brain as his neurons tried to piece themselves back together, why Toris was so deathly afraid of the slamming of a door.

The slamming of a door was more horrifying than a gunshot. The slamming of a door was to look into the face of oblivion. The slamming of a door was to forget who you were.

Ivan held him firmly, and then pulled him to his feet, and it was with gentle whispers in his ear that he was led away.

Out of the room, and the air was cool and fresh and breathable.

He prayed that this was real.

He could not bear it if this was a hallucination. He couldn't.

Ivan never stopped speaking to him.

He clenched Ivan's coat for dear life.

Ivan didn't leave his side, even for a second, and when he felt the softness of a bed beneath him, he held his palms over his eyes, as the awful pain in his head made him want to retch.

"Here, look, I turned the light down. See if you can open your eyes."

He didn't want to try, but he did anyway, and it was with reluctance that he tried to squint them open.

A moment of blackness, and then dancing lights, and then finally his vision cleared.

He was in his bedroom.

No more endless white.

Ivan sat on the edge of the bed, and the lamp of the end table was on the lowest setting, casting out a dim yellow light. It was still too bright, and he shielded his eyes from it, and finally Ivan reached out, and touched his shoulder.

"You're hurt," he whispered, and Ludwig finally met his eyes.

Ivan was real.

Ivan was real, he was sure of it.

Oh, God.

Ivan was smiling.

"I missed you. Did you miss me too? See, I told you I'd come back for you. Didn't you believe me?"

Leaning in, Ivan pulled him into a gentle embrace, careful of the cut on his chest, and he could only stare at him, overwhelmed.

Ivan was the most terrible and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Ivan, who wielded power over night and day, over sense and sanity, over life and death. Who could push him to the absolute brink of insanity and then pull him back.

Ivan came back for him.

Ivan was real.

Ivan pulled him down beside of him on the bed, holding him tightly in his arms as he struggled to piece back together the broken shards of his sanity, and this time, when Ivan pressed his lips against his ear and whispered, "I'll protect you. I love you," it sounded strangely reasonable.

Because, after all, Ivan had saved him from the dark.

He clenched fistfuls of Ivan's coat, burying his face in Ivan's chest, trying to get as close as possible, and the horrible memories that the room had brought back to the surface were slowly fading away.

The past didn't matter.

He had to live in the present to survive.

He tried to pull Ivan closer, even though Ivan was practically lying on top of him, and Ivan just snorted, and stroked his hair.

"Miss me?"

When the shooting pain in his head dulled down into a throb, he looked up, and when he met Ivan's eyes, he asked, huskily, "Hey. You're real, aren't you?"

Ivan only smiled. That was enough.

He could have sat here and hugged Ivan for days.

He wasn't alone anymore.

No more whispering.

Ivan sat upright, suddenly, and for a horrible, heart-racing moment, Ludwig thought that he was going to leave, and he couldn't bear to be alone again, but Ivan only reached over down onto the floor and hauled up a bag.

A first-aid kit, and when he sat it on the bed and leaned forward, pulling the shirt from Ludwig's shoulders gingerly, he began to speak again.

"I'm so impressed with you, you know. I've never had to turn the light off before. For a while there, I thought you might die! You're so brave." He pulled a bottle from the bag, and Ludwig only watched as he uncapped it and whispered, "This will sting."

A cotton ball was soaked in the liquid, and then it was pressed against the wound on his chest. It burned like fire, and he winced, but Ivan's hands would not let him flinch back. He bowed his head at the pain, but Ivan's soothing words made it bearable, and then the liquid was rubbed against the cuts on his hands, and then his feet.

Ivan never stopped smiling.

"I still can't believe it! I knew you were something special, you know, as soon as I saw you. But I admit that you surprise me sometimes. You Germans, you have to act so tough all the time. Ha. I like that."

He could only lie there, and let Ivan croon words of endearment as he pulled out a needle and thread and then he looked up, saying, coolly, "I've got to stitch them. It will hurt a little. Which one should I do first?"

Which one? Did it matter?

They would all hurt the same.

He only shrugged a shoulder, and Ivan's smile widened. "You're right, it's better for me to decide." He threaded the needle, and Ludwig clamped his jaw shut as he began to stitch up the deep cut on his chest. "See, it's better for me to do all this for you. I can make the decisions for you. You don't really need anyone else, do you?"

A short silence, as Ivan's eyes bored into his own, and he could only shake his head, helplessly.

"I'm glad! It's good that we're together again! I hated that, you know. I missed you."

Ivan's voice was smooth in his ears.

Only Ivan's voice.

Where had Gilbert's voice gone?

Now that he was out of the room, it was gone.

Like smoke.

He could not hear it.

He used to hear it so frequently in his head, no matter where he was. Now he struggled just to get a second of it; he struggled to remember the pitch and the tone. The inflections and the accents.

And every time he thought he had it...

"I won't let anything happen to you."

...only Ivan's voice.

He was falling.

He could not seem to climb back up.

The further into the abyss he fell, the less he was sure that he wanted back up.

Because insanity was oddly...

_Don't look, don't look, don't look._

Liberating.

Ivan set the bag aside, and pulled him up onto his chest. He let Ivan do as he would, and rested his head, and suddenly the blanket was pulled over him. A shift beside him, and then the light was off.

Ivan stayed with him the whole night.

He was glad.

He didn't want to be alone.

It would be easy...

He drifted.

It would be so easy to just sit back and let fate do what it would, and Ivan could make all of the decisions from now on, and he would only follow blindly behind.

Like a dog.

It would be better for Ivan to make the decisions.

It would be better.

It was almost nice, in a way, to have someone else in charge. For someone else to be the responsible one.

He could handle that.

Ivan was always right.

Right before he faded into unconsciousness, Ivan leaned in and whispered, in his ear, "You'll stay here with me forever. We were meant to be together. I can tell. Can't you feel it? I've looked so long for someone. I never found anyone. Until you. Oh, I love you. I swear I do. I was in Berlin for a reason now, I know it."

_Forever. _

Gilbert had been wrong.

Ivan _did _love him.

Suddenly, wrapped in Ivan's arms and warm and safe, he didn't want to go anywhere.

He had spent so much time plotting on how to get back to Gilbert that he had never even stopped to consider whether it was actually better.

He loved Gilbert. He always would. But their time together had passed.

That was the past that needed to be left behind.

The road had split.

Gilbert had done his best...

It just hadn't been good enough.

Maybe he was better off here with Ivan. Ivan was always right. Anything bad that had happened to him under Ivan's presence had been his own fault.

Ivan kept all of his promises.

Gilbert didn't.

As he lied there, head rested in the crook of Ivan's shoulder, he was having trouble remembering why he had ever been so frightened of Ivan in the first place. Ivan didn't seek out to hurt him, or argue with him. Ivan didn't make him sit and wonder where he was, if he was alright, if he had gotten himself killed; Ivan was always at his side. If Ludwig had asked him, he was sure that Ivan would stay right where he was, instead of leaving him alone. Ivan was responsible. Careful. Mature. Sensible. Reliable. Ivan took care of everyone here, in his own way.

It wasn't bad.

Irina was right. Ivan wasn't a bad person. Not really. Just misunderstood, perhaps.

For the first time, he felt his guard dropping, and he was so sick of worrying and fighting.

He just wanted to be with someone who cared about him.

Gilbert wasn't here anymore, but it wasn't so bad, because Ivan had stepped up to take his place.

Barely conscious and desperate to be reminded that he was no longer alone (and very much real) he reached up clumsily and threw his arms around Ivan's neck as tightly as he could.

In doing so, he threw away his resilience. His pride. His independence.

As if it mattered. He had none of that left now, anyhow.

He was spent.

Ivan had won. Ivan always won.

There was a silence, and then Ivan gave a deep noise of contentment, and tightened his embrace. The moon streamed in weakly through the curtains, and he finally fell asleep, Ivan tucked firmly into his side.

Ivan was real.

_Together._

Maybe in time, he would find his place here, and if he really worked at it, if he really gave it a chance, maybe he could make this life in Siberia better than the one he had had in Berlin.

_Forever._

Ivan was always right.

Going with the flow was so much easier.

He gave up.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

It was hard to tell who could be trusted and who could not.

Especially in this part of the land, so far east of Brno, and so close to the border of the USSR, where everyone walked around with thick coats and fur hats and with shifty looks, and Gilbert felt horribly out of place on these streets, where hardly anyone spoke German, and knowing that the final border was _so _close was almost overwhelming.

He could barely breathe.

As he pushed through the crowds, he kept his eyes straight ahead, so that he would not lose track of his guide.

He never thought he would say it, _ever_, but thank God for Roderich. If he had had to repeat the last horrendous border crossing, he was not sure that he would have had the resolve to go through with it.

But now there was someone helping him, and when the man before him slipped down a side street and into a waiting car, he followed.

There was no conversation. No small talk. All business.

When the car stopped hours later at the edge of a great, dark forest, he was passed from one guide to another, an exchange of money was made, and then they started walking.

The car left.

Only trees.

He had known all along that it would be hard to get across, but he hadn't anticipated that it would take four days of continuous walking through undergrowth and trees and snow and ice to get there.

His legs were sore, his heels ached, his head was pounding, and his stomach churned, but still he walked behind them, and sometimes they had to stop and wait for him to catch up.

He was so tired...

They allowed him to sleep only in the middle of the afternoon, when the sun was the brightest, and they walked under cover of darkness and evening and cloud fronts.

Ludwig was waiting.

With every burning, agonizing step, he was getting closer.

That was the thought that sustained him those horrible days, and he did not even realized that he had entered Ukrainian lands, leaving the forest for fields, until one of the men in front of him had cried out, cheerily, "Look, there! See the lights? We're almost there!"

He raised his head, dumbly, and sure enough, far out on the dark horizon, there was a faint, dull glow of a city.

Kiev.

He had walked so many days.

He was only in Kiev. No, not yet. Kiev was hours away. That dull glow was so far...

A road suddenly jutted up from out of the snow, and they walked along it, as quickly as possible, and after half an hour a car slowed to halt in front of them.

His next pass off.

Another exchanging of money, he leapt into the car, and the men left behind waved him farewell.

Such an intricate web that Roderich had woven...

Roderich was brilliant. If Roderich had come, he probably would already have Ludwig and be on his way back.

Roderich had so many connections. It wasn't _his _fault that he knew no one helpful.

The road zoomed by, the snow started to fall again, and as he leaned his head against the window, he regretted terribly that he had missed yet another Christmas with Ludwig, having spent it walking through foreign lands in despair.

Alone.

Did Ludwig look the same as he always had? Was he still the same person?

...did it matter?

Maybe he wouldn't ever see him again.

"Hey, you listenin'?"

He started upright, and when he wrenched his head over, the driver was staring at him in annoyance. It was obvious that he had been speaking, but Gilbert, out in space, had not heard a single word.

"Sorry," he grunted, awkwardly. "Sorry, I'm a little... What were you saying?"

A gentle glare, and the man shook his head.

"I was saying, that I'm gonna drop you off at the train station. I think you can manage to buy a ticket on your own. From there—hey, are you _listening_?"

Gilbert could only nod, dumbly, even though the words were distant in his ears.

"You better pay attention if you wanna make it! Look, the train leaves Kiev, and you're gonna be on it for a few hours, and then, and this _really _important, you're gonna look for a town called Oryol. Hear me? Oryol! And when you see the first signs that its coming up, you're gonna go the back, and you're gonna jump off the train, because right when you're about to pull into Oryol is when they do a passport check on the train cars. When you jump, just make sure you remember to follow the railroad tracks. You'll get into town in a hour or so, and someone will be waiting there to take you to Moscow by car."

"How will I know who?" he asked, weakly, and the man sent him a stern look.

"Don't worry about it. He'll find you. Just walk into town. Don't go far. He'll be there. And don't forget to jump _before _you get to Oryol!"

He shuddered, and the man thrust a slip of paper into his hand.

He looked down at it, dumbly, and saw letters he couldn't really read.

"That's what it will look like. Oryol. Just make sure you keep an eye out for it. If you don't get off the train before they start the check, then you're done for."

There was a silence, and he tucked the paper safely in his pocket, and there was a horrible gnawing of fear in his chest, because suddenly it was _real_, and the thought of leaping from a steaming locomotive was absolutely terrifying. Back in the day, before he had lost Ludwig, such an adventure would have been amazing, and maybe he would have leapt headlong into the challenge with bravado, confident in his ability to reign supreme, but it was different now.

He had lost Ludwig. With Ludwig, he had lost his confidence too. His self-assurance.

If he couldn't even protect Ludwig, then what good was he?

The dull glow on the horizon became steadily brighter, and then there was the hazy outline of Kiev, looming pale and bright against the breaking dawn.

The sun steadily rose above the line of the forest, and the buildings of Kiev lit up like an ominous inferno, and when the train station stood before them, it was far too soon.

Too soon.

He was not ready.

Whether he was ready or not, the car lurched to a halt, and he stepped out into the freezing air, and then he was alone again in the train station.

He bought his ticket to Moscow, lamented that Roderich's money was already dwindling, and it was with a heavy heart and equally heavy feet that he trudged into the train and took a seat.

He leaned his head against the window, and even though he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and go straight to sleep, he did not dare, because if he fell asleep then maybe he would miss his jump off, and the only thing waking him up would be a hand on his shoulder, and then a voice asking to see his passport.

He couldn't sleep.

Hanging his head, he pulled out the piece of paper with the odd letters and clenched it in his fist, and let his mind wander.

Ludwig.

Dumb Ludwig.

If he could have just listened in the first place, he would be safe back at home in Berlin, watching television with Alfred in the evenings and studying with Roderich in the afternoons and chatting with Erzsébet in the mornings.

If he could just listen...

Maybe he should just leave him out there, if only to teach him a lesson.

He regretted the thought as fast as it had entered his head, and hated himself, because it was not Ludwig's fault.

It was his. For being stupid.

With Ludwig on his mind, for a second he could have sworn that he heard someone whispering in his head, a very familiar voice, but when he looked over, there was nothing.

No one sat beside him.

A whistle in the distance, and the train began to push forward on the tracks, and he turned his gaze to the window, watching the foggy windows with half-hearted interest.

He folded the paper over and over again in his cold hands, putting his fingers to work so that he would not go crazy. He wanted to stand up and pace, but he did not want to draw unwanted attention to himself.

An old woman sat down on the seat across the aisle from him, sending him an occasional glance from the corner of her eye, and he shifted his weight anxiously.

He was in the USSR now. No one here could be trusted.

His paper folding intensified, and as the time passed and the snow fell and the train chugged along, he could feel himself falling further and further into exhaustion. His eyelids were much too heavy, and if he could just hang his head, just for a second...

His fingers fell still, the air was warm and heavy, and he nodded off.

_Wait for me._

Sleep wasn't always welcome.

His vision blurred. His head dropped.

His dreams were not as pleasant as before.

The atmosphere was strange.

Whispering.

When he looked back up, with bleary eyes, he was just back in Berlin, in that old living room from years past, and his relief was doubled when the door swung open and Ludwig ran in, cheeks red and pale hair gleaming white in the sunlight, and he felt a heaviness lift off his shoulders.

Ludwig, smiling breathlessly, backpack on his shoulders and covered with sweat from the summer heat, fifteen or sixteen, tall and strong and amicable, and when he saw Gilbert sitting there, he said, eagerly, '_It's a pretty day! Won't you come out for a while? We can go the park._'

He pulled himself to his feet, and Ludwig was so handsome, even so young, and Christ almighty, he would go _anywhere _that Ludwig wanted him to, as long as they were together.

The static crackled in his ears.

Ludwig extended a hand, smiling. He looked at it, dumbly, and then he reached out, slowly, to take it. Ludwig's hand within his own was always a welcome feeling; cool and smooth and strong, and always sure.

Ludwig stood there in the doorframe, bathed in the sun and ice-blue eyes glowing silver, and so calm, and he was, as he always had been, the most beautiful thing that Gilbert had ever seen.

Ludwig's steady hand was held out in expectancy.

Ludwig's pale hand...

He reached out.

'_I'm waiting_.'

Before he could grab Ludwig's hand up within his own, there was someone else standing in the sunlight. Someone taller than even Ludwig, and broader, and their shoulders blocked all of the sunlight from the doorframe, and Ludwig was cast in shadows.

Gilbert froze still, and the static in his ears turned into an unbearable screeching, because it was the Russian that stood back there behind Ludwig, and when he placed two large hands upon Ludwig's shoulders, Ludwig's hand fell down at his side, and something horrible happened :

Ludwig _smiled_, and twisted around, looking up at the Russian and asking, as he had asked Gilbert, '_Won't you go walking with me_?'

From above Ludwig, the Russian's pale, stormy eyes stared into Gilbert's with that horrible hypnotism, holding him in place just like they had before, and he could only open his mouth helplessly when the Russian tightened his grip on Ludwig's shoulders, and returned Ludwig's smile.

And then the Russian took Ludwig's hand within his own and pulled him back through the door, and Ludwig walked with him of his own accord, and as he went, he never even cast a single glance over his shoulder at Gilbert, not even just to say that everything would be alright, or not to worry because he would come back...

Come back.

Come back.

Ludwig wouldn't ever come back.

_We couldn't be together..._

The Russian had won.

_Forever._

He suddenly came back to earth with a terrible crash, and he raced to the door just as it slammed shut, and no matter how hard he turned the handle, the door just wouldn't open.

It was stuck.

He started screaming, then, words that even he did not understand, and he could not _bear _to lose Ludwig again—

A hand on his shoulder.

With a strangled cry, he leapt up to his feet in horror, heart racing and chest heaving, and for a moment all he could see was black.

Ludwig was gone.

A pale light broke through his haze, a flash of white at his side, and he realized that he was back on the train.

His forehead was damp.

For a moment, he looked around, dumbly, and then he saw the old woman, standing there beside him, and she was gazing up at him with a look of alarm. He opened his mouth, but found no words, and then he could see that she held a piece of paper in her hand.

He had dropped it in his sleep. She held the paper up, and he took it with a weak smile, and she said something to him in Russian, and pointed to the window.

And even though he could not understand her words, he got the idea.

She had seen the paper on the floor. She had picked it up. She had seen the town name. And she had awoken him, because his destination was near.

He would have said, 'thank you', had he not been so nervous to speak German around her, and instead inclined his head, politely. She smiled at him and resumed her seat.

He did not.

He felt sick all of a sudden, knowing now what he had to do, and as he strode unsteadily to the back of the train, the twisting in his stomach was not just from the anticipation of his jump.

That horrible dream.

A dream?

He shuddered as he approached the last car, and took up the door handle in his hand.

Maybe it was an ill omen. A premonition.

Ripping the door open, he stepped back out into the winter air, and his mood was worse than ever before. That image seemed burned in his mind, of that Russian, with his hands upon Ludwig's shoulders.

A strange squirm of betrayal in his veins. Ludwig should not have smiled at anyone else like that. Not like that. He and Ludwig had been _meant_ for each other.

He could feel it.

It hurt, to think that Ludwig would ever rely on others.

No. Just a dream.

The snow was going by with dizzying speed, and as he slunk down and grabbed the railing in his hands, he hesitated.

He was scared. He would not deny it.

...oh God, that _smile _on Ludwig's face.

Fueled by adrenaline and something else that he could not put his finger on, he pushed the latch and opened the gate, and braced his legs.

_One._

It wasn't so hard, just to jump. It would just be like jumping into a pool, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was water waiting below, and not the hard ground.

_Two._

Tuck and roll. It wasn't like he hadn't hit the ground ever before. How many times had he collapsed dead drunk on the sidewalk? At least there was snow to soften the blow.

_Three_.

He took a deep breath, and leapt.

For a moment, there was only air.

And then the ground came.

Hard.

It knocked the wind out of him, and the pebbles that lined the sides of the tracks dug into his skin and cut his hands as he sought to steady himself.

His head hit the edge of a rock, sending stars across his vision.

Helpless rolling, the white of snow and then the white of the sky, and when he finally fell still, on his stomach and completely limp as the coarse snow rubbed his face, he could only lie there, breathless.

His head was splitting open.

As he saw the oppressive snow around him, he could only draw his arms up above his head, and he wanted nothing more than to just start crying. He had never been so exhausted in his entire life. He could not take much more of this.

A warmth ran down the back of his neck, and when he put his fingers in it, they came back red.

He wanted to cry.

Maybe he would have, if there had not suddenly been a voice so close to his ear, coming to him through the snow and the wind and the screeching of the distant train.

'_Down and out again? I'm not surprised_.'

He shuddered, and maybe he was just going crazy.

He had hit his head. He was hearing things.

'_What? Can't even talk this time?_'

He was just hearing things. There wasn't anyone there.

But when he looked up, head pounding and vision blurry, he was momentarily startled.

The world stopped.

Whooshing in his ears.

He couldn't breathe.

His heart soared.

Because standing above him, pale hair shining white in the winter sun, arms crossed and eyes cool and icy, was Ludwig.

Ludwig.

Dressed neatly in his perfectly clean clothes, hair slicked back and not a detail out of place, fresh-faced and pale and young and beautiful, he stared down at Gilbert with a low brow and a frown, and even though the snow fell thick around him it did not seem to touch him, and he was shaking his head in what could have been disappointment.

Ludwig always looked disappointed around him.

'_Hi, Gilbert. Awake?_'

Even though he _knew _it wasn't really Ludwig—God, had he hit his head _that _hard?—and even though he _knew _that he would just be talking to himself, still he flipped over onto his back and raised himself up onto his elbows, and asked, roughly, "Well? Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna help me up?"

Some part of him expected Ludwig to extend a hand and pull him to his feet, but Ludwig only scoffed, and his brow flew up. His voice was soft and calm, and maybe condescending as he said, coolly, '_You got down there by yourself. You can get up by yourself_.'

Pfft. He'd heard _that _before.

Shaking his head to clear it, he threw his arms to the side and braced his palms on the ground, and it took every effort to push himself up, and when he stood, he nearly fell right back down for his dizziness. His head felt like it would explode, and Ludwig's voice was echoing eerily in his ears, and the tone of it was silvery and ghostly, like Ludwig was speaking to him through some kind of strange wind.

But it was still Ludwig, and even if he wasn't real, God almighty he was still beautiful to look at.

He didn't dare reach out, because if he tried to touch him, then maybe Ludwig would vanish like smoke, and he would be alone again.

He could not bear this journey alone.

Alone.

He wouldn't make it...

Not alone.

Ludwig knew the limits of his will and courage.

A thought struck him, as Ludwig stared at him unblinkingly, and he asked, voice raspy and low, "Hey! D'you come out here to help me? I've been looking for you for so long..."

Ludwig's arms fell loose at his sides, and he only stood there silently, and maybe it was crazy, and certainly it didn't make sense, but he _wanted _to believe that some part of Ludwig, wherever he was, had somehow crossed space and time and all boundaries just to see him on his way.

Almost like a guardian angel, if Gilbert believed in such things.

'_A long time. Yeah, it has been long, Gilbert. It's been a while_.'

"Yeah," he managed, weakly, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Yeah it has."

It burned him suddenly, like a knife in his stomach, how much he _missed _Ludwig, and seeing him like this before him but not being able to touch him was almost worse somehow than any torture.

He missed him.

He forced his arms to stay straight at his side, as the urge to leap forward and draw Ludwig into an embrace became almost overwhelming, and it was with a heavy heart that he took a step forward, and said, "Well. Let's go."

Steadying himself, he took another step, and slowly his gait corrected itself as he went, and even though his head and chest hurt and his stomach was churning, it was alright, because Ludwig walked silently at his side, as bright as the sun could ever be.

A guide.

Ludwig was brave.

Trudging through the snow, he spoke to Ludwig, and now that he was not alone, it was easier to set his sights on his destination.

Ludwig was always so serious.

'_You've been walking for a long time. Aren't you tired_?'

"Yeah, but I can't stop. I'll have you back before long."

'_Oh? So sure_?' Ludwig crooned, smoothly, and Gilbert felt almost embarrassed under his brother's stern eyes.

Ludwig had lost all faith in him long ago. Rightfully so.

That smile.

Swallowing to fight off his nausea, he tried to appear brave.

"It'll take a week, maybe, to get to Moscow, if I'm really careful."

'_You're never careful, Gilbert_.'

"I will be. I won't get caught."

With those words, Ludwig scoffed, and fell silent.

He glanced at Ludwig every chance he got, and it _hurt _not to be able to take his hand.

They walked through the snow, Ludwig's steps making no sound and leaving no footprints, until the sun was on high and the snow finally stopped.

Ludwig's eyes were silver in the pale sun.

A train horn in the distance, and he could see the beginning of a road against the white snow.

Lights.

He followed the road, eagerly, Ludwig at his side, and when the outline of civilization was near, he felt hopeful.

He was close.

As he staggered into town, cold and tired and numb and dizzy, he kept close to Ludwig, and when he began his search for his next ride, Ludwig was suddenly leaning in and whispering words in his ear.

It was not encouragement.

'_Where are you going now, Gilbert? You're always going somewhere, but you always lose, in the end. Where are you going? After him? What will you do if you find him? You'll run. You'll get scared. You always do_.'

He shook his head, and tried to keep his eyes focused, because he was _so _close, he could _feel _it, and why couldn't Ludwig ever just _trust _him?

Roderich had found someone here for him. Someone was waiting.

Ludwig did not believe in him.

"I won't run," he grunted, as he approached a streetlamp, and then suddenly Ludwig was standing right in front of him, blocking his path.

He was smiling.

'_Stop_.' Gilbert did, and Ludwig cast his eyes off to the right, and, inclining his head, he asked, casually, '_Is that what you're looking for_?'

He looked now too, and there, next to a tiny shop, stood a man, pacing back and forth with his hands tucked in his pockets, and his nervous air made him stand out from the other people on the street. Gilbert would have walked right past him, so inconspicuous was his appearance, but sharp-eyed Ludwig was never fooled.

'_Go to him_.'

Turning in his path, Gilbert walked wearily over to the pacing man, and with every step closer, he took in his appearance.

Blond hair, short stance, bespectacled, and he looked young, maybe Ludwig's age, and above all, he looked _timid_. Not like a border-hopper and an expert smuggler.

Maybe Ludwig was wrong.

But when he saw Gilbert approaching, the man's head snapped up, and he smiled, and it was obvious that this was, after all, the man he was looking for.

Ludwig tucked his hands behind his back, and called aloud, '_Sorry we're late. He fell down_.'

The words stung a bit, even though he knew that he was the only one who could see Ludwig, and when he approached, the man didn't speak, and immediately turned on his heel and walked off into the crowded streets, and Gilbert followed behind at a short distance, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

Ludwig walked at his side, hands clasped behind his back and smiling easily.

Confidently.

This was how Ludwig had always looked when he knew that _he _was right and that Gilbert had done something stupid.

A car loomed in the distance.

The man opened the door and stepped inside, and the sound of the ignition made Gilbert's heart race. It was the sound of no return, because once this town was gone, then there was just Moscow.

The heart of Russia.

When Gilbert approached the car, he froze in his tracks in a horrible hesitation, because he _feared _Russia.

The heaviness in the Russian's hands as he had placed them upon Ludwig's shoulders _burned _him.

An omen.

Ludwig saw his sudden reluctance and his smile widened, straight white teeth visible as he laughed to himself. '_Well! Isn't this exciting! Adventure and the like. Well, I can't believe you even made it this far! Don't push yourself too hard Gilbert. You can't handle it. You know, if you ask nicely, he might even drive you all the way back to Berlin._'

Ludwig's laughter was a dagger, and it was with a stir of anger that he reached out and grabbed the door handle, and wrenched it open.

He was not going back to Berlin. He wasn't such a coward.

Stepping inside, he settled down, and he had barely shut the door before the car pulled out. And he tried to focus his attention on the man beside of him, who was looking at him, but Ludwig made it hard, sitting in the backseat, legs folded primly and arms crossed behind his head. He was smiling at Gilbert in the rearview mirror, pale eyes alight.

'_I haven't been on a road trip for a long time. Russia might be fun_.'

Suddenly agitated, he almost said, 'Shut up, Ludwig!', but he suppressed it, because the man was staring at him as it was and Ludwig, for all his smart comments, was not _real_.

The air was tense.

Gilbert scratched his collar irritably.

"Well," the man suddenly began, nervously, "I'm glad you made it here safely."

"Yeah," he grumbled, still catching Ludwig's gaze in the mirror, and he could feel the man shifting his weight anxiously.

"So. You're going to Moscow, huh? What's in Moscow?"

'_Yeah_,' Ludwig began from behind, '_What _is _in Moscow, Gilbert? All the way there just for me? Since when_?'

"None of your business," he snapped, as the words grated him, and the man flinched back at his tone, and Ludwig started laughing again.

God, if only Ludwig could trust him.

'_Gilbert, you can't ever play nice with anyone. Roderich does everything for you. All the hard work he's done, and you'll just run away in the end._'

Clamping his jaw, Gilbert averted his eyes and stared at the road ahead, and tried to keep focused.

"I'm looking for someone," he finally relented, and the man raised a brow.

"Oh? All the way to Moscow?" He snorted, humorlessly, and added, "I was kinda surprised, at first. Usually when I get people past borders and passport checks, it's to get them _out _of the USSR, not in."

"I bet," he said monotonously, not interested in conversation, and the man shifted again.

"May I ask who you're looking for?"

Gilbert did not respond, reluctant to say the Russian's name lest he run across someone else who would freeze up in fear, and he needed this man, because he could not get to Moscow on his own.

"I'll tell you when we get there—"

'If _we get there_!' Ludwig called eagerly from the back, and Gilbert sent him a half-hearted glare in the mirror.

"Alright," the man said, carefully. "Fair enough. Don't worry. You're safe with me. I've been doing this for a long time."

They fell still, and Ludwig straightened up and began to drum his fingers on the edge of Gilbert's seat, resting his chin on the leather and leering at him.

_'How have you been Gilbert? Life treating you okay? Say, why don't you offer him some acid? Ah ha ha, that might make the trip go by a little faster, eh_?'

Trying to distract himself from Ludwig's piercing gaze, he turned his attention to the man, and asked, lowly, "So, if you're so good at this, why are you still here?"

The man shrugged a shoulder, saying, "I don't know. I like helping people, I guess. There are a lot of people that want to get out, but just don't know how... I can help them."

_'I wanted to help people. Why don't_ you?'

"Oh."

This was so awkward.

"You're bleeding," the man observed, anxiously, but Gilbert shrugged off his concern.

"It's nothing."

He was tired.

"Oh, well. My name is Eduard, by the way."

Resting his head against the window, he whispered, "I'm Gilbert," and then he closed his eyes, as Ludwig leaned in from behind and whispered in his ear, and now his voice was warmer and gentler.

'_I'm waiting. I missed you so much. I hate fighting with you_.'

He was so close.

'_Go to sleep, Gilbert. You look so tired. Remember what you said? That we'd be together_...'

He smiled as he drifted into sleep, Ludwig's deep voice in his head, and tried to stay hopeful.

He would not give up.

Ludwig still loved him.

Oh God, he missed Ludwig so much.

He could not live without him.

They had to be together.

_Forever_.

* * *

><p>It felt like years.<p>

The bed was warm.

He hadn't slept like this in so long...

He could have slept longer, maybe, if there had not been a warm hand upon his cheek, and then a thumb running down his jaw line, and the comfort of sleep was slowly shaken off.

It felt like he had been asleep for years, and at first, he could not even open his eyes, for the heaviness in his head.

Too much effort. His chest ached.

Someone was whispering above him. He couldn't understand. The words were soft, and soothing.

The hand moved from his jaw and entangled in his hair.

Garbled thoughts fluttered through his mind, and then there was a jolt of panic.

A kiss on his lips.

Static.

The cold feel of glass in his hand.

He came out of the fog, and for a horrible moment, he thought that the whispering was just in his head, because he had gone _crazy_, and with a sharp gasp he bolted upright so quickly that his head split open in a blast of white pain, and everything was dark.

The whispering stopped.

Silence.

Nothing stirred.

He shut his eyes and placed his palms above them as the pain throbbed, and then someone placed a hand on the back of his neck, and Ludwig knew, finally, that he was not alone.

His head hurt so badly that he had to bite his lip to keep himself from sobbing.

"It's okay. Hush. I'm here. You're alright."

That voice.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, and when his vision cleared, he was relieved.

It was just Ivan.

He was _glad_. How strange.

"Hey," Ivan crooned in his ear, as he struggled to keep his eyes open against the light of the morning sun that broke through the curtains, "How are you feeling? You've been asleep for a while."

He couldn't answer; had he opened his mouth, he would have started bawling.

As the black fled from the edges of his eyes, he was finally able to take in Ivan, and it struck him instantly that he was _grateful_, above all else, that Ivan had stayed with him all this time.

Sitting there, a forgotten book on his lap above the blanket, Ivan stared at him with a smile, pale hair damp and uncombed, in a loose shirt that was half-unbuttoned. His cheeks were red and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Ludwig realized then how _warm _the room was, and suddenly he could feel a heater blasting on him from the side.

"You were cold," Ivan responded, simply, when he saw him looking at the heater, "You lost a fair bit of blood. I wanted to make sure you were warm enough."

That made him grateful, too, because obviously Ivan was extremely uncomfortable in this heat and yet that had not stopped him from turning the heater on high.

Ivan, who could handle such discomforts, just to make sure he was safe.

"I'm alright now," he finally managed, voice barely audible for how rough and scratchy it was from disuse, and Ivan did not seem to need any more than that; quickly, he leaned heavily across Ludwig and turned the heater off with a look that could have been relief.

The hot air stopped, and a chill set in.

When Ivan pulled back, he did not pull back all the way, and fell still when he was hovering above Ludwig, so close that their noses nearly touched, and the look in Ivan's eyes was heavy and overwhelming. He could only sit there, frozen, and it occurred to him blearily, as a bead of sweat ran down from Ivan's damp hair, that Ivan was exceedingly handsome when flustered and unkempt.

Siberia in human form, perhaps, untamed and dangerous and wild.

Ivan's stormy eyes were relatively calm now, as his warm breath fell on Ludwig's cheek.

He shifted, and it struck him how _sore_ he was. His body ached, and for a moment, as Ivan stared him down, he could hear whispers in his ears, distant and haunting. He could not place the voice, but the words stung.

_You're nothing to him. He doesn't love you._

Just words. He pushed them away.

"You slept so long. I was worried. I'm glad you're awake."

So long. How long had he been here? He felt like he had been run over by a train.

Ivan's fingers ran down his shoulder.

He recalled the suffocating night. The bright light. A shatter of glass. That horrible solitude. Loneliness. Hopelessness. The inability to think. The burning fire in his head.

Pain. Fear. Terrible memories.

And then he remembered Ivan.

_You can depend on me._

Coming to his rescue, like he always did.

Ivan had carried him to safety when he had collapsed in the forest of Brno. Ivan had defended so passionately his honor. Ivan had brought him back from the verge of hypothermic death. It had been Ivan, in the end, who had saved him from the dark. And it was Ivan, now, who reached out and placed a gentle hand above the stitches on his chest, observing the wound with a careful eye and sure fingers.

"That looks better," he said, more to himself, and the feel of Ivan's heavy, balmy palm on his skin was strangely comforting. Ivan looked up, and caught his gaze, and asked, again, "How are you feeling?"

An honest reply would have been something like, 'better, as long as you're here,' but such a response would have killed whatever small shard of pride he had left within him, and he was clumsy with such words. With a weak voice, he only managed a lame, "Okay."

The urge to cry was waning.

Ivan smiled and reached out, smoothing down his messy hair fondly.

He couldn't help it. Without thinking, and as if his body was moving of its own accord, he raised a wobbly arm and placed the back of his hand against Ivan's damp forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat with a certain tentativeness.

He was just _so_ glad he wasn't alone. He needed to _touch_ something.

He realized, when he saw his palm against Ivan's skin, how pale he was.

A ghost.

Ivan fell still, and his smile faded. For a horrible moment, as he sat there silently, Ludwig wondered if he had done something wrong. Ivan's calm eyes could be deceiving, and he looked suddenly so serious, and, oh God, if he had done something wrong and if Ivan were _angry_—

Then Ivan reached up and took his hand within his own, and placed Ludwig's cool palm against his lips. And when he looked up, he was smiling again.

"I'm glad you're back. I missed you."

Ludwig was relieved.

"You should rest," Ivan suddenly murmured, and then he pulled himself to his feet, and the warmth was gone.

A squirm of anxiety in his stomach as Ivan buttoned up his shirt and smoothed his hair, and then he took a step towards the door.

Was he leaving? The door loomed in the distance.

Ludwig straightened up, eyes wide and alert, and he grabbed handfuls of the blanket as he longed to leap up and follow.

Ivan was _leaving_.

He couldn't seem to move, and now Ivan had the doorknob in his hand.

"Go back to sleep, and I'll come back for you later on and bring you something to eat."

Ivan was smiling. _He _was not.

As Ivan stood there, gripping the side of the door in his hand as he stood in the frame, he felt a horrible rise of panic.

Oh, God, if he shut the door...

If he shut the door...

"Wait," he said, as he gazed at Ivan with wide eyes of alarm, "Where are you going?"

There was a pause, and Ivan watched him coolly.

"Just to work," Ivan said, and there was a hint of a leer twitching on his lips, almost as though he could read Ludwig's mind. "I won't be long."

They stared at each other, and he did not want to _say _it, but Christ almighty if Ivan left him alone again he was afraid he would start to hear those voices, and he would see those things again, and he could not bear anymore of that horrible _nothing_.

Finally, he managed a weak, apprehensive, "Is it... Is it really important?"

Ivan quirked his head, curiously, and then waved a hand in the air. "No," he said, and then left the door standing wide open, and came back towards the bed. But he did not lie back down, and instead stood there at the foot, staring down at Ludwig with a calm expression. "Why? ...do you want me to stay?"

He opened his mouth, and lost his voice. He did not want to be alone. He did not want Ivan to leave.

Swallowing his pride, he nodded his head, and that was enough.

"Well!" Ivan chirped, cheerily, and maybe triumphantly, "if you want me to stay so badly, what can I do? Alright. It's just paperwork. I can do that later."

Relief flooding his chest, he followed Ivan with his eyes as he returned and lowered himself down on the bed, and when Ivan reached out and pulled him up to his side, placing an arm around his shoulders, he fell into him, because Ivan was real.

The ghosts back in the room were not.

Ivan was here. They were not.

He did not move within Ivan's arms. It was enough just to have someone with him.

"How do your feet feel?" Ivan suddenly asked, and he started, and realized that he had not even paid attention to his feet. Pulling his legs out from under the blanket, he tried to observe the soles, but his limbs were weak, and he fell short. Ivan was quick to reach down and inspect, and before long he crooned, "They look alright. Do you think you can walk?"

He nodded, even though he was not sure, but Ivan was suddenly leering at him, and he realized that Ivan's question was not meant to be answered.

"Well," he said, neatly, "I don't want you to fall."

Before Ludwig could protest, he reached down and enveloped him within his arms, and lifted him up straight into the air.

How embarrassing.

Ludwig did not dare ask to be set down, because Ivan did what he wanted. There was no stopping it.

As he carried him to the door, Ivan looked down at him with a furrowed brow, and muttered, to himself, "You're too light."

That was not Ludwig's greatest concern, and he was thankful that the hall was empty, because he would have been mortified if anyone had passed and had seen Ivan carrying him like a doll, and he was thankful too that it was only a short distance before Ivan knocked open the bathroom door with his foot and stepped inside.

Ivan finally set him down, and he immediately wished that he had not, as his feet stung and throbbed, and his legs wobbled. Reaching out and gripping the sink for support, he could only watch as Ivan knelt down and turned the faucet of the bathtub on, and the sound of rushing water was wonderful.

The mirror quickly steamed up, and when the water was high enough, Ivan shut it off and came over, hovering above him and smiling.

"Well? Go on, get in."

Now he hesitated, as Ivan leered at him and watched him expectantly, and even though Ivan had stripped him down once before, it was still shameful for him to be so exposed.

Ivan's head tilted, like it always did when he was observing and calculating and taking notes, and then his smile widened enough to show his teeth, and he drew his hands up and placed them above his eyes.

"Alright," he conceded, "I'm not looking! Hurry up and get in."

Ludwig did, as quickly as his unsteady body would allow, and fell inside the water heavily.

As soon as the warm water fell up to his chest, he realized how exhausted he was, and laid his head back, closing his eyes.

A shadow fell over him.

When he looked up, Ivan was kneeling down, still smiling, and he had taken up a cloth in his hands.

"Let me see your arm," he stated, and Ludwig held it out instantly, without thinking. It startled him, almost, how quickly he had done what Ivan asked of him, but maybe that would be for the best in the end.

Ivan cleaned and tidied the healing cuts on his arm, and then the other, and before he even really knew it, Ivan was inspecting _everything_, but it was alright.

As long as Ivan didn't leave him alone.

He laid his head back, let Ivan do as he would, and began to drift as Ivan whispered close in his ear.

On the verge of sleep and subdued in the warmth of the water, he took comfort in Ivan's hands, as they ran through his hair to cleanse it, and he was vaguely aware of his surroundings when Ivan leaned in and asked, eagerly, "Are you alright to sleep alone tonight? I might be up late to finish my papers."

Looking up blearily, he furrowed his brow.

He did not want to be alone.

Seeing his expression, Ivan's eyes narrowed coyly, and he continued, "Well, if you don't want to be alone, I guess I could let you move into my room! Would you like that?"

Ivan's strong fingers entangled in his hair, he could only lie there and stare up at him helplessly.

Into Ivan's room? Did Ivan even _have_ a room? Did Ivan even _sleep_?

Ivan's room...

Ivan was waiting, patiently, as he began to rinse the soap from Ludwig's hair.

Then, feeling almost that he was being granted an exceedingly rare privilege, a glimpse into Ivan's privacy and personal space, he nodded.

Because, God help him, he did not want to be alone.

"That's great!" Ivan said, and there was something in his voice that was nearly excited, and Ludwig could only smile, weakly. "Don't worry, I'll stay with you as long as you want me to."

Ivan was like a little kid sometimes. So quick to smile, and so easily pleased.

It occurred to him suddenly that, if he had seen him curled in bed next to Ivan like a love-struck teenager, Gilbert probably would have slapped him across the face and then would have burst into tears.

_You're so stupid!_

A sudden burn of anger in his veins startled him, and it was with a pang that he realized that the thought of Gilbert was almost more of an annoyance now than it was a comfort.

Dumb Gilbert.

Gilbert always overreacted. So _jealous_.

Ivan's hands were kneading away the soreness in his shoulders, and he pushed Gilbert from his mind.

What good would it do, to let Gilbert get under his skin? He wasn't here anymore. Those days had passed.

Finally, Ivan seemed to be finished, and grabbed his arm, pulling him up to his feet. When he looked down, he saw that the water was a murky, dull burgundy from the blood that had crept from his wounds.

Ivan placed a towel over his head and around his shoulders, and dried his hair while successfully pulling him steadily closer.

He was so subtle and skilled at it that Ludwig didn't realize it was happening until he was pressed up against Ivan's chest, the soft fabric of Ivan's shirt pleasant against his skin. And Ivan's unwavering, scorching gaze was almost as pleasant, and it was strange to be stared at in such a manner after so many years of Gilbert sheltering him from the world.

Gilbert's over-protectiveness would be his downfall to Ivan, in the end.

"Feel better now?"

"Yeah," he whispered, and it was true.

He felt _so _much better, clean and bathed and in Ivan's appreciative gaze, and suddenly his churning mind was calmer.

He felt better.

Ivan saw his tranquility, and reached out, taking Ludwig's face in his hands and leaning in, pressing his lips into Ludwig's forehead with fervor.

He could have gone to sleep right there.

"That's good."

Ivan swooped away from him, leaving him chilly and exposed in the middle of the bathroom, and when he looked over, he saw Ivan rummaging through a tall wicker cabinet for fresh clothes.

His brow was furrowed as he looked through this section and that, and finally he pulled out a shirt, and stared at it with pursed lips. "This is too big," he grumbled aloud, but he threw it over Ludwig's shoulders nonetheless, and Ludwig allowed him to draw it together and connect the buttons. A pair of pants followed, and even though Ivan's shirt was all but engulfing him, clean clothes were more than appreciated.

Ivan reached up and wiped his brow, and observed him.

"You don't look so bad in my clothes!" he chirped, pleasantly, and reached down, grabbing Ludwig's hand and pulling him towards the door. "It doesn't hurt to walk, does it?"

He shook his head, even though it did, and followed behind Ivan, the cold tile welcome beneath his bare feet.

Ivan tugged him into the hall and led him around the corner and towards the door.

"Here, come with me! Let's go for a walk."

A walk?

Taking a coat from the wall, Ivan held it out and he could only put his arms through it, wondering what Ivan had in mind now.

Ivan set boots on the ground before him, and when he tied them up he reclaimed his hand, and the door burst open and, before he knew it, he was in the outside world. A moment of silence, and then it hit him like lightening, the terrible pain in his head, and for an awful moment, he was frozen under the glaring winter sun. The light was far too bright.

His eyes were not ready for this yet.

Wrenching his hand out of Ivan's, he covered his eyes and hung his head, stifling his cry of pain, and even though he did not want to appear so weak in front of Ivan, it was just too bright.

Everything was still for a second, and then Ivan's hands were on his wrists, pulling his arms down and exposing him back into the light.

"It won't hurt for long," Ivan said, sternly, and gave him a gentle tug. "Come on, open your eyes. It won't get better if you won't open them."

Under Ivan's serious voice, he had no choice, and forced himself to look up.

The bright sunlight slowly faded into a bearable glare, and even though his head hurt like _hell_, Ivan looked pleased at his efforts, and that was enough to force him to keep his eyes open.

Ivan did not lead him down the path that led to town, and instead took him around the back, where the edge of the great forest loomed in the distance.

The frozen river gleamed in the sun.

Ivan looked much more comfortable out here in the stinging air than he had in the humid warmth. He was always smiling.

Ludwig followed behind him clumsily, unable to match Ivan's fast pace, and when he stumbled, Ivan looked back at him and leered, "If you can't keep up, I'll just have to carry you again."

Ludwig furrowed his brow and forced himself onward, even though, in the back of his mind...

He might not have minded. Not really. His feet hurt.

The forest was closer than ever, the clouded sky was still, and the quietness of this wilderness was alarming. Nothing seemed to move, and the trees seemed overwhelmed by the snow and even the sky itself.

Ivan's hand gripped his own.

They approached the tree line, and then Ivan stopped walking, and brought him up to his side, staring out into the trees. He looked at home. Confident.

Ludwig was glad that he had someone so brave and fearless next to him, because standing out here alone would have been terrifying. He had always loved the forests. But not this kind. This forest was endless. Wild.

Why had Ivan brought him here? Did he want to know?

He was freezing, but he didn't bother to wrap his arms around himself, as Ivan watched him coolly from the side, seemingly unfazed by the chill. He did not want Ivan to think he couldn't take it. Straightening his shoulders, he acknowledged his head to the tree line, and asked, voice low and weak and rough, "Are we going in there?"

Ivan's pale, sunlit silvery eyes flitted up to the forest, and he felt a horrible rush of apprehension, because the forest was untamed and uncharted and endless, and who knew the dangers within it...

Then Ivan quirked his head to the side, thoughtfully, and scoffed.

"There? Not you. Not yet, anyhow."

He exhaled in relief, and then Ivan reached out and placed a heavy hand on his back, and began to nudge him forward. He walked automatically, his boots crunching along in the snow as he slumped through it clumsily, and Ivan glided next to him, steps quiet and sure and skilled.

He felt almost inadequate, next to polished Ivan, who knew this environment like the back of his hand.

They walked until the trees were so close that he could smell the pine, and they towered above him, casting dark shadows upon the white. Ivan fell into one of the shadows, and his eyes went from silver to dark violet. And then, in the wake of the forest, Ivan finally fell still, and stared out into the trees.

Everything was calm.

A great tree stood before him, a tall pine with branches so broad that they spread out against the backdrop like huge fingers. Snow drifted silently down as the needles shifted, no doubt from birds flitting about above, and he shifted too, uneasily.

It was _too _quiet, and Ivan was gazing out into the stripes of trunks and snow so intensely that it was almost frightening. Shadows shifted deep within the forest.

Ivan's eyes were strange. As though he were in a silent battle with the wilderness itself.

A long moment of nothing, and then Ivan finally whispered, softly and mysteriously, "Have you ever seen a tiger, Ludwig?"

He almost didn't hear Ivan's low voice against the static in his head, and jumped in alarm.

"What?"

Ivan did not look at him, his gaze unwavering, and he asked again, just as softly, "A tiger. Have you ever seen one?"

...huh?

"No," he finally managed, with a furrowed brow, "I guess not."

Ivan's eyes were focused and unblinking, and Ludwig cast his gaze to the trees, and tried to see what Ivan saw.

He couldn't. He saw only snow, and tree trunks, and shadows and inconspicuous movements.

Wisps of drifting snow. A fluttering of wings. White and brown and every shade of grey.

The wind started blowing, the tree branches swayed eerily, and Ivan said, against the breeze, "If you turn your back on a tiger, it will jump right out and grab you by the neck before you even take a step. It won't let go. It won't back down. It's not afraid of you, because it knows it's stronger than you. Faster. Smarter."

Ludwig shuddered, for something beyond the cold, and now his eyes scanned the trees rapidly, because Ivan saw _something _out there, and he could not stand knowing that there was something _watching _him and that he couldn't see it.

Ivan reached up and replaced that heavy hand upon his back, and continued.

Yet still, he stared into the trees.

"It will take you, if you turn your back. But... If you look it in the eyes, it stops. It looks back at you. If you watch it, and don't look away, it knows you're not afraid of it. And after a while... It will go."

Ivan was calm and confident, but _he _was not, and the squirming of anxiety in his chest was uncomfortable, and no matter how many times he looked over the same stretch of forest again and again and again, he just couldn't see it. He shifted his weight nervously, as he struggled with the flight response in his veins.

Ivan's hand would not allow him to turn around, and Ivan must have felt him shifting about this and way and that, for he suddenly leaned in and whispered, casually, "Calm down. You do everything so quickly. Just slow down, and look. You'll see it."

Ivan's left hand flew up, and he flinched mechanically, but there was no harm. Instead, Ivan's warm hand fell above his eyes, casting him into darkness, and when Ivan whispered, "Calm down," in his ear, he took a breath, and everything slowed.

Dark.

He hadn't wanted to go back in the dark.

Ivan's hand was strong, and without his vision, he could suddenly hear the shifts within the forests, the whistling of the breeze within the pine branches, and he could smell the snow and the trees and something else, a musky warmth that emanated from the wood, and he could feel the wind harsh on his cheek and Ivan's sturdiness beside of him, and his racing mind began to steady.

He was still and silent.

Ivan's hand was gentle on the bridge of his nose.

He could smell Ivan, so close next to him.

The cold air stung his lungs.

"Look."

A movement, and Ivan's hand withdrew, and he was momentarily blinded by the white sun that glowed out from behind the clouds, but then his pupils constricted, and he could see the forest again.

It was almost automatic, how quickly he could see it this time, under Ivan's sure guidance.

He inhaled, startled. He could see it.

Out ahead, standing unmoving in the midst of the snow drifts and trees, was a great tiger, unblinking and unflinching, its orange fur covered and matted with snow, and it was frightening, how focused its golden eyes were as it stared into Ivan's. Its paws were braced in the drifts, and it didn't even appear to be breathing, looking more like a statue than a living animal, and Ludwig could see, just from the look in its eyes, that it would have liked nothing more than to have leapt out and dragged one of them into the woods, but it was caught under Ivan's eyes.

It was not afraid. Neither was Ivan.

In the end, it was the tiger who broke the stare, with an irritated twitch of its tail, and then suddenly it turned and retreated into the mighty trunks, and in a second was lost to sight within the camouflage of the forest.

Finally, Ivan's shoulders relaxed, and he turned to Ludwig with a smile.

"Did you see?"

He nodded, dumbfounded, and was amazed by Ivan's control, even over nature itself.

Cheerily, Ivan chirped, "Neat, huh?"

Neat. As if it was nothing.

No one, _nothing_, looked into Ivan's eyes and came out of the gaze victorious. He had learned that lesson himself, and now, as Ivan stared him down, he just couldn't seem to move.

"You shouldn't be frightened of it. As long as you can look it in the eye, you're not in danger."

He nodded again, dumbly, and Ivan reached out and grabbed his hand, and tugged him back.

Ah, fuck. Without Ivan, he would have gotten eaten. In a second.

Best to stay close to Ivan. For now.

"Here, look, I wanted to show you something."

Ivan tugged him back through the snow, until the mighty pine stood a fair distance ahead, and suddenly Ivan was directly behind him, strong arms wrapped around his chest and pressing heavily into his back.

He stood still, and did not pull away.

Ivan's warmth was comforting behind.

Ivan's breath was warm in his ear as he asked, casually, "Have you ever fired a gun, Ludwig?"

A coldness in his palms, and he remembered Gilbert standing behind him, just like this, and he remembered Gilbert putting the gun in his hands and lifting his arms.

But...

"No," he said, and Ivan squeezed him so tightly that he could barely breathe, and his voice was low and husky when he spoke again.

"That's good. Don't worry, I'll show you how."

Because Gilbert had never let him actually pull the trigger, saying that he wasn't old enough and that it was too dangerous, and he might hurt himself.

A flash of light in the white sunlight, and suddenly Ivan had thrust something cold and hard in his hands, and when he looked down, he felt a lurch of nervousness in his stomach. Ivan's gun was within his fingers—_Ivan's _gun—and he could not help but shudder, because this was the same gun that had pressed into his forehead not so long ago, and yet now Ivan was allowing him to hold it, as if...

As if he just _trusted_ him so that he knew his own weapon would not get turned against him.

When Ivan's hands covered his own and drew them slowly upward until the gun was level, just like Gilbert had done all those years ago, it never even crossed his mind to just turn around and aim the gun at Ivan.

The steel felt strange in his hands.

He had not held a gun for so long.

"It's not so hard. Here, look, just keep your arms straight, and put your fingers here... That's right. Good! Now, take your aim, and keep both of your eyes open."

The last time he had held a gun, Gilbert had startled him so that he had dropped it.

He couldn't hold it straight. Gilbert had laughed.

Agitated and almost embarrassed, he shifted his weight, fretting that Ivan would sense a certain weakness within him, and if Ivan knew that he doubted himself and that he couldn't even hold a gun...

Ivan, intimidating and strong. He felt inadequate.

Ivan didn't seem to mind his anxiousness, and held his arms steady.

"Don't look so worried! Here, I've got you! Just find your aim. It's not so hard."

He had dropped the gun before.

This time, with Ivan's strong hands gripping his own, Ivan's chest pressed against his back, and Ivan's warm voice whispering heavily in his ear, he stayed firm and steady.

Ivan's thumbs traced circles over the back of his hands as he clenched the steel.

This time...

"Look at you," Ivan crooned, breath hot on his cheek, "You're a natural. You're so good at everything. Perfect aim." Ivan's hands tightened around his own, and Ludwig could only fall back against him, breathless and feeling his heart racing in what could have been pride, and then Ivan lowered his head and pushed his already loose collar down with his nose, exposing his neck to the freezing air.

Teeth grazed his skin, gently, and he shivered, and when Ivan commanded, firmly, "Fire," he did, without even thinking. His finger squeezed the trigger without even a second of hesitation, because Ivan had given him an order, and it was stronger than he had imagined, as the explosion of gunpowder cut through the silence of the outdoors like a bomb, and the force of it would have sent him back a step had Ivan not been molded into him from behind. It made his head split open in pain.

It was louder than he had always imagined it would be. It felt different, somehow, than he had thought it would.

More horrible.

The bullet struck the tree, straight in the center, and even though he knew it was Ivan's steady hands above his own that made the aim so perfect, he could not stop the bristling of ego when Ivan's eager voice was in his ear again.

"Great! That's good! Again."

He fired again.

The second bullet hit right beside the first, and he knew now what to expect, and braced his feet accordingly.

This time...

And by the time third and fourth bullets were unloaded, he didn't even notice that Ivan's hands had dropped down to his waist, and he was aiming and firing completely on his own.

Ivan was watching him. He didn't want to falter.

The fifth and sixth bullets sank into the bark, and for a moment he only stood there, as Ivan's warm hands slipped under his coat to grab a hold of his belt, and he stared at his target, and almost smiled.

Not one miss.

Was Ivan proud of him? Oh, God, Ivan must have been proud of him.

"One day," Ivan murmured as he buried his face in the crook of Ludwig's neck, "if you keep that up, _you'll _be the one protecting _me_."

Him? Protect Ivan?

The thought was almost overwhelming, and he could hardly envision himself standing at Ivan's side, walking beside of him loyally wherever he went, ready and willing to shoot any dissenters with a calculated coolness, aim never wavering...

Did Ivan trust him so? Maybe.

Did he trust himself so? No.

...he would let Ivan down, in the end.

For a moment, doubting himself and feeling suddenly morose, his arms fell, and the gun felt heavy in his hands.

"I can't," was his low response, and he lowered his eyes to the snow, because he was _nothing _out here in this wilderness, and how could he ever protect Ivan if he couldn't even protect himself? "I can't."

Ivan was silent, and then he raised his head, and pressed his cheek into Ludwig's firmly.

"If I say you can do it," he began, sternly, "then you can do it. Here." Pulling his hands out from Ludwig's belt, he took the gun away and opened the barrel, tossing aside the empty shells, and reached into his pocket, taking out six more. And as he loaded them in, never releasing Ludwig from the circle of his arms, he added, "You'll get even better at it, in time. Remember what I said? If you couldn't handle it, I wouldn't have ever brought you out here in the first place."

Ivan shoved the gun back in his hands and forced his arms back upright.

"Come on, just like before. Keep both of your eyes open."

He furrowed his brow and took his aim, and as Ivan's voice filled his ears with encouragement, he fired.

Why was Ivan teaching him this? So that he could take him out into the world with him, without having to keep an eye on him every second? So that he would have a second view of his surroundings? Just because it amused him? Because he liked risk and danger?

Surely it had crossed Ivan's mind that teaching him such a thing could be _dangerous_.

Did Ivan really trust him so? Would he end up using this gun to keep Ivan safe?

And if he had had a gun when the officer had threatened Ivan's safety...

"You're perfect, you know, you really are. You don't ever let me down."

...if he had had the chance to protect Ivan then...

"We'll always be together. I won't ever leave you."

The bullets struck the tree with dull thuds.

"We make such a good team, don't you think?"

A team.

"We look out for each other. I'll protect you, no matter what."

He knew, as Ivan's fingers held his neck gently, that he would have fired, if he were given another chance, to protect Ivan.

He would have fired. Because Ivan was always right.

Gilbert had always just teased him, putting the gun in his hands but always taking it from him in the end, never letting him fire it because it was too dangerous. So what? He could handle danger. Maybe he would even like it.

Ivan did not treat him like a child.

_We'll always be together._

The clouds burst above and snow began to fall, and as the wind picked up, Ivan clenched him tightly to keep him steady, and it occurred to him, suddenly, that he didn't miss Gilbert as much as he had before.

Not really. He could live without Gilbert.

And this time, with Ivan's heavy hands propping up his own, he had not dropped the gun.

Ivan trusted him.

Maybe being together, forever...

He was probably better off without Gilbert.

...together wasn't so bad.

He didn't drop the gun.

_Forever_.


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

It wasn't such a big deal.

It was just a simple relocation. Not even a difficult one. It wasn't like he was moving to a different house, or even switching numerous possessions from one bedroom to another. It wasn't such a big deal.

All he was going to do was sleep in a different bed.

He didn't have anything here to move around. He had no possessions. It wasn't a big deal.

So why did he feel so sick?

It had been a long day.

No doubt it had felt that way because he had been at Ivan's side for every single second of it, walking behind him through snow, halls, and rooms, and time passed _so _slowly because he had tried to make sure that he did not do or say anything stupid that would make Ivan angry, and also because he was dreading...

Dreading.

Having spent the entire day in Ivan's suffocating presence, Ludwig was now forced to look back and regret upon his precipitous decision to 'move into', as Ivan had put it, Ivan's room, and now he would have no more personal space, because he would no longer have a room of his own.

Oh, God, why had he ever agreed to such a thing?

With every minute that passed, the sun was getting ever lower, and as he sat now at the kitchen table in between Ivan and Irina, the mounting dread squirming in his stomach was so strong that he could not even take up his coffee.

They did not seem to notice his distress. Or if they did, they did not acknowledge it, holding a very rapid conversation in Russian as he sat there staring off blankly into space, and he hated that he could not understand what they were conversing about.

His chest hurt. The stitches were starting to itch. Did that mean they were ready to come out?

He glanced at Ivan out of the corner of his eye as Irina reached out suddenly and placed her hand above his, and Ivan smiled, and who _knew _what they were talking about when they both looked over at him.

Oh, God, were they talking about him? It wouldn't be the first time. He shifted uncomfortably under their eyes, and looked away.

Irina carried on babbling, but Ivan's gaze lingered upon him.

He stared out of the window, at the great forest that loomed in the distance. The snow gleamed in the sunlight, the pale clouds too thin to block out its light.

Every minute, the sun was getting lower. Night was approaching.

He would not sleep in a familiar place tonight. He would occupy Ivan's bed tonight. All because he had been afraid to be alone.

He felt sick.

It was too late now. He could not back out of something that he had agreed to. Not with Ivan.

Ivan did not allow such relapses. Ivan did not make mistakes; he was not expected to, either.

The evening passed.

He trailed behind Ivan through the halls, like a dog, and as he went he looked around, helplessly, for Toris, somehow hoping that he would appear out of nowhere and come to his rescue and tell Ivan that maybe it wasn't such a good idea for them to share a room, that maybe it had been too soon. Toris just wasn't anywhere to be found, and finally the sun was gone.

Why wasn't Toris ever there when he needed him?

Toris never helped him.

The sun was gone.

They walked, silently, Ivan's arms held behind his back as he stood straight and tall, and every so often he would look back, to make sure that Ludwig was matching his pace. The excuse of this constant exploration of halls was for _his _benefit, because he had been so sick lately and that exercise was good for him.

Sick.

He had been sick, alright. It seemed that ever since he had been taken from Berlin, he just kept finding himself in precarious situations, and the end result was only frailty and the continuing blurring of his mind. He felt exhausted and weak and defeated. Not himself. Like he were lost in endless mists. But Ivan called him 'sick', as though it were just a fleeting illness that was dragging him down, and that he would get better soon, as long as he worked at it.

He began to wonder if he would ever get better. He had scarcely recovered from one mishap before he found himself in another. Even though Ivan always came to his rescue, sometimes maybe it was too late.

His head hurt.

Ivan looked back at him, with lidded eyes of tranquility, and he barely heard Ivan's voice as he whispered, "Are you feeling alright? Is it time to rest?"

Time to rest?

Looking to delay the inevitable, he shook his head, lifted his foot, and struggled to keep walking. Ivan snorted, and turned around, perhaps humoring him.

Ivan was patient with him.

He was tired, but he did not yet want to step foot in Ivan's room.

Once he did...

He reached up, holding his temple as his head began to pound, and he could still smell the gunpowder upon his skin.

...maybe he could never come out again.

The hour grew late, his chest ached with the effort, and yet still, every time Ivan asked him if he was ready to call it a day, he would only shake his head stubbornly and force himself to move forward.

He was ready to drop. The dread in his stomach fueled him. The little voice of warning in his head told him to put this off for as long as possible, and maybe even try to get out of it somehow.

...yeah, right.

Ivan's patience was not endless.

As soon as that thought passed his mind, it was almost instant. Before him, Ivan fell to a halt, so suddenly that Ludwig nearly crashed into his back, and when he looked over his shoulder, the sternness in his pale eyes was a clear indicator that the time had come.

"It's been a long day," Ivan said, pointedly, as though this game of cat and mouse had suddenly bored him, and as Ludwig's headache intensified, he added, strictly, "You're tired. You need to rest. Come on. Follow me."

Oh God. There was no getting out of it. Ivan started walking again, and his heavy feet moved of their own accord, forcing him to follow behind Ivan even though the voice of reason told him not to.

What could he do? He would occupy Ivan's bed tonight.

The thought, at first somewhat enthralling, had suddenly become terrifying. Who knew what Ivan's room was like? Maybe there was a gun under the pillow, and a white door off to the side, and with them everything he had ever been afraid of...

Giving in to his anxiety and without thinking, he said, lowly, "I'm not so tired. Not really."

He pressed too far.

There was a silence as Ivan looked back at him over his shoulder, and his look was so severe and his voice so stern that Ludwig wondered if the ice had broken beneath him as he snapped, loudly and angrily, "Who was asking you? I stayed with you all day, didn't I? You asked me to, so I did. I don't have time to waste like you do. I do everything for you. You don't have to worry about anything. _I _have responsibilities. I have _work _to do, and when I put it off, it's an annoyance. The army never sleeps. Everything's so easy for you, you know! I take care of you. I told you I had work to do but you wanted me to stay, so I stayed. Now it's your turn to do what I say. I don't have any more time to spare. Stop being childish and come on."

Then he turned and stalked off down the halls, and for a horrible moment, Ludwig could only stand there.

His heart was hammering.

Childish.

The words _stung_, and the dread in his stomach was replaced with something worse.

Guilt.

Because it was true, the things Ivan had said. Ivan did do everything here. Ivan took care of everyone, and he did not ask for much in return. Only that everyone listened to him when he spoke; that they did whatever he told them to do. And he remembered that moment in the morning, when Ivan had made to leave him, and hadn't he been the one who had asked him to stay?

Maybe he _was _being selfish. Ivan did everything for him. He was being disrespectful, perhaps.

The guilt mingled with a strange terror.

Was Ivan angry? He had sworn to himself that he would never make Ivan angry again.

Finding his feet, he struggled onwards after Ivan, trying to reach up to him against his furious pace. Ivan had already made a turn and was scaling the staircase, halfway up the top, and Ludwig could only bolt after him, spurred on by adrenaline and fear.

If Ivan was angry...

Dizzy and desperate to prevent a dark calamity, he reached Ivan, several steps above him, and managed to grab the end of his sleeve.

Everything fell still, and Ivan stopped where he was. Ludwig waited, apprehensively, fingers tangled in the fabric of Ivan's coat and fearing that it was far too late.

He had just gotten out of that room. He did not want to go back.

Finally, Ivan turned back to him, and the stormy eyes were unexpectedly calm, and his cool smile returned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred, as if harsh words had never been uttered, and when he spoke this time, his voice was high and cheery.

"Are you alright?"

Ludwig nodded, dumbly, as his feelings shifted yet again. First anxiety, and then fear, and now he felt something like confusion.

His head hurt.

Hadn't Ivan just been angry?

That little voice was screeching something in the back of his mind, and he struggled to make out its warning; he grasped, however vaguely, that he was being played, being conditioned. Hadn't this been how Gilbert had gotten his way? Calm one minute and then so angry the next, shouting and screaming until Ludwig had just let him do as he pleased in exhaustion. It was just one of the scare tactics of people like _them_, wasn't it? They weren't really angry (well, maybe Gilbert had been sometimes), and to get their way they wielded anger as easily as someone else wielded a gun. Anger, or guilt-tripping, or blaming everything on _him_.

It was all the same. Emotional manipulation.

Ivan hadn't _really _been angry...

"You look so tired," Ivan suddenly whispered, and when he reached out and placed a firm palm down on the top of his head, Ludwig shut the voice down and tried to smile as the haze in his mind returned.

Who cared if Ivan's anger had been an act or not? It was still frightening. It still had consequences.

Ivan took his hand, and gripped.

"Come on. You should lie down."

This time, he did not protest, and allowed Ivan to drag him off to where he would, as the voice of warning was stifled by the mists of Ivan's presence. Ivan pulled him along at his side, and as they roamed the second story, Ivan suddenly leaned his head down, and murmured in his ear, "I'm sorry I shouted at you."

Before, such a comment would have made him scoff, perhaps, and retort, 'No you're not!'

But his head hurt and he was so relieved that Ivan was not angry and he was _so _tired that all he could do was squeeze Ivan's hand and whisper, weakly, "It's my fault. Sorry."

It _had _been his fault. He had been inconsiderate.

Ivan stared down at him with a smile and an expression that looked like a mixture of pleasure and triumph, and he said nothing more.

The halls twisted.

He had walked these halls with Toris. He had not known at the time that Ivan's room had been so near. Maybe Toris had done everything in his power to avoid walking past it.

The halls were dim, lit up barely by wall lamps whose bulbs were far too weak, flickering in the last throes of life, and the shadows cast around were eerie. This house was so huge, and so empty. How could even _Ivan _know everything that went on in here? Maybe the house had a mind of its own.

The shadows appeared and disappeared with the flickering of the bulbs. Ivan did not seem daunted by the low light and the chilly air, dragging him along quite happily, and when they rounded another corner, there was a short hallway, and at the end of it stood an unassuming door.

He felt faint.

Ivan's room. His room.

..._their _room.

He shuddered, but Ivan did not seem to notice, and the door had suddenly been pushed open.

A moment of darkness, and then Ivan flipped on the light. And somehow Ivan was suddenly behind him, and pushed him through the doorway, and into the room that he would now call his own.

He tried to take it in with a blurry mind.

Maps.

This room was far larger than the others he had seen. The ceiling was high and arched. A huge chandelier hung above, and he could not help but wonder whose frightening job it was to climb up a ladder and change those light bulbs when they died (poor Toris, no doubt). The curtains were red. The carpet was white. A desk was off to the left, covered in folders and cups full of pens. In the middle of the floor an expensive rug, Persian maybe. The four-post bed was straight in front of the door, up against the wall. The sheets were red. The thin curtains that fell down around the bed were red. Above the bed, pinned to that cloth that covered the posts, there hung a huge map. So that Ivan could stare up at it and fall asleep owning the world.

The closet stood off to the right. The door was shut.

He could see Ivan's shadow looming out against his own.

His head hurt.

He should not be here.

The bed stood before him.

A wave of fright washed over him.

And for a horrible second, he stood there frozen in the middle of the bedroom, heart pounding and hands trembling, and that little voice of reason and alarm that had been suppressed in the back of his mind suddenly came roaring back to life, and it was telling him to retreat, to back out of this room before he couldn't ever leave it again, that it was not _safe _here, not with Ivan, that he should _never _have set foot here in the first place—

He took a hesitant step backwards. The adrenaline was making him sick.

That voice was screeching in his head.

Warning.

He should never have come here. Silent danger.

He took another step back.

Get out.

Another step backwards.

It was not safe here.

He was on the verge of flight, Ivan be damned.

Go.

His foot lifted.

Then Ivan slammed the bedroom door shut behind him.

He started so hard that it hurt his chest, jumping into the air and whirling around so fast that he was afraid he would fall, and that voice inside of his head faded into a crackling static as he was flooded with a horrible panic that he had never known, because, oh God, if Ivan had shut the door and left him alone with only his own fragile mind as company—

Ivan was still here.

He stood before the closed door, arms loose at his sides and smiling amicably, as though all was right with the world, eyes cool and casual.

Even though Ludwig _knew_, somewhere inside, that it was just another scare tactic, like Ivan's anger, even though he _knew _that he was being bullied and manipulated, God help him, it worked.

"Do you like it?"

The screaming voice of reason was completely gone, a cold sweat broke out on his brow, and he was so nauseous that he was _sure _he would faint, but he smiled palely and weakly at Ivan nonetheless, and managed to whisper, "It's... It's pretty."

It worked. His head was spinning.

The door was shut.

Ivan stood before it.

He clenched his fists at his sides, so that they would not tremble as that horrible slam echoed in his ears, and for some reason he could not seem to wipe that ghost of a smile from his face when Ivan came forward and enveloped him in his arms. Dizzy and anxious, he buried his face in the crook of Ivan's shoulder and squinted his eyes, as whispers of ghosts threatened to come upon him, and his chest ached.

He couldn't do that again.

Not again.

Anxiety was something he was becoming accustomed to.

Ivan was clenching him so tightly that he could hear his spine creaking threateningly.

Minutes of silence, as Ivan seemed to retreat inside of his head, and he finally raised his weary eyes above the top of Ivan's shoulder.

The maps loomed out.

Long, bold, black marks had scribbled over most of them, creating lines that cut through borders and sometimes fell on top of towns and cities. There were occasional scribbles in Russian. Thumbtacks marked destinations and maybe targets.

On some of the maps, there were great black 'X's over towns. He could only imagine what had happened to _those _towns.

A calendar sat between two maps. He squinted to make out the date.

January the fourth.

He lowered his brow in thought. Only January? Barely the new year.

He had thought it would be so much later...

As Ivan held him, he suddenly blurted aloud, weakly, "How long was I gone?"

Gone from the world, lost in oblivion, and Ivan knew what he meant.

"Eleven days," was the cool response, and he felt faint.

Eleven days?

It had felt like _months_.

Months. Not eleven days.

Ivan pulled back, fingers suddenly digging into his waist so firmly that he suppressed a wince, and when Ivan spoke again, his voice was almost excited as he cried, "You see how brave you are? See, I knew you'd be able to handle it. Do you remember when we talked in the car before? Remember, how you made it sound so easy? I doubted you, you know! But not anymore. You're so brave."

He didn't feel particularly brave, but Ivan didn't need to know that, and he could only bring himself to shrug a helpless shoulder as Ivan stared him down.

"I love that about you. Here. Lie down."

Oh.

His heart was racing again, as Ivan began to push him gently towards the bed, and for a moment that panic was back. Because the last time he had lied down in a bed with Ivan, something that should have been simple, there had suddenly been the barrel of a gun against his forehead, and who could say if this time would be any different?

He dug his heels in the carpet, and tried to stop himself.

Ivan stared at him, and then tilted his head.

"What? Aren't you going to lie down?"

He could not find his voice, and something in Ivan's eyes was sharpening.

"You don't want to sleep here?"

He did not know why he was so frightened to lie in that bed.

He could not answer.

Ivan stopped in his tracks, and his smile was almost a leer.

"What's wrong?"

Helplessly, he looked over his shoulder back at the bed, and Ivan must have sensed his trepidation and nervousness, and acted upon them, taking charge like he always did. Suddenly he had changed direction, and now they were parallel with the bed rather than in front of it.

Ludwig was frozen under his gaze.

He knew that he should submit, because it was just a bed, and resisting only brought worse things. Such worse things.

He couldn't find his voice.

"What?" Ivan asked, almost breathlessly, as he reached out and grabbed up Ludwig's collar within his hands, "What's wrong? Huh? What is it?"

He did not realize that with every word, Ivan was pushing him steadily backwards.

"What's wrong? Are you scared or something? What? It's just a bed. Didn't you say you wanted to sleep here?"

Ivan's leer was almost knowing.

They fell back another step.

"Well, then. Here's what we'll do. If you don't want to sleep in the bed..."

A hardness from behind.

Ivan pushed him back until his shoulder blades dug into the wall.

"...then you can sleep in the closet. How about that? Does that sound alright?"

Ivan's voice was gentle.

"Is that alright?"

The closet?

Dumbly, he looked over, and realized that he was pushed up against the closet door, not the wall. Ivan was pressing him against it mercilessly, and before Ludwig really knew what was happening, Ivan had reached beneath him and grabbed the handle of the door. A swift movement, too fast for his foggy mind to comprehend, and the door was pulled open. And then he realized that Ivan was pressing him back again, still holding his collar.

Darkness fell over him.

He was dangling in the threshold, held up by Ivan's strong hands in his collar, half in and half out of the closet, and Ivan's eyes were churning with what could have been excitement.

"Well? What's it going to be?"

He looked over his shoulder, into the small, dark, murky closet, and shuddered. He could not bear to be cast in there.

"Oh, come on," Ivan coaxed, gently, "Is that really where you want to be?"

The closet was dark.

Who knew what lay in wait within...

In the darkness. A shift of shadows.

Reaching up in a moment of anxiety, he grabbed Ivan's wrists within his hands, and shook his head.

Ivan's smile loosened.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, and Ludwig could only shake his head again, and smile, wearily.

...it hadn't been so hard. An obvious choice. He should have realized it immediately.

Ivan's hands unclenched from his collar and fell down to his shoulders, and when strong fingers dug into his muscles in a strangely comforting vice, he slumped in something that almost felt like submission. A strange feeling that he was not accustomed to, and yet somehow it was liberating, to let someone else be in charge, and he tried to relax.

If he could just relax, everything would be so much easier...

Ivan was watching him expectantly, and finally he managed to whisper, "Sorry."

Just like that, he was ripped away from the looming void of that dark closet, and when Ivan reached back and shut the door, quietly, he suppressed his sigh of relief, and was grateful.

Too close. He was still being too careless. He would have to learn more quickly what could and could not be done.

Resistance was not accepted. Defiance was not permitted. Hesitation was not tolerated.

"Don't worry about it," Ivan crooned in his ear, hands falling heavily on the back of his neck, "It's alright. I forgive you. I just can't stay angry with you! Maybe because I love you so much!"

The words were smooth in his ears, and the anxiety was evaporating.

Ivan was patient.

He did not open his mouth again, for fear of saying the wrong thing, as Ivan led him to the edge of the bed and forced him gently to sit, and from there, everything passed in a dull haze. He crawled under the blanket, lying down in exhaustion, and he watched through blurry eyes as Ivan turned off the overhead light, flipped on the lamp on the end table, and after grabbing up a thick stack of papers, Ivan settled in next to him, resting back against the headboard, and he began to drift, as Ivan took up a pen and set to the paperwork he had neglected to complete earlier.

And that was it. What had he been afraid of?

The great map hung from overhead.

Ivan's warmth next to him, the dim, golden light of the lamp and the exhilaration of his brush was danger was too much.

The closet door was shut.

He fell asleep, as Ivan's pen scratched the paper.

He did not dream.

He could _feel _the looming darkness of the closet, even as he slept, and when he awoke hours later in the black of night, a movement in the dark as Ivan finally completed his task and lay down to sleep, he started upright in a moment of blindness, and when his eyes adjusted to the moonlight he stared at the door.

It was still shut.

He made to leap upright, mind still heavy with sleep, but his panic fled as quickly as it had come when he felt Ivan shifting next to him, and then there was a firm arm around his chest, pulling him back down, and he obeyed immediately.

Ivan's nose buried itself in his hair.

He did not move, as Ivan whispered in his ear until he drifted off, and Ludwig found it hard to go back to sleep as Ivan's soft words ran through his head.

_We'll always be together._

As Ivan slept away, that heavy arm still thrown over his chest in what could very well have been possessiveness, he only stared up at that great map up above, tracing the rivers and the roads that cut across the landscape, and no matter how hard he tried not to, his eyes always fell back to Berlin.

Berlin. Berlin was just a memory now. This was the closest he would ever be to Berlin again; staring at a map.

From this bed.

At least he could see that dot that he had once called home, and take some kind of quiet comfort in it until he fell asleep. He could memorize the roads, even though he would never again use them. He could envision his street, even though he would never see it again.

The longing ache in his heart was painful.

Berlin.

Ivan slept so easily. Without a care. Confidence and self-satisfaction were easy to fall asleep to.

Self-doubt and apprehension were not. And neither was longing. But, after hours of restlessness, Ludwig slept again too, held up inescapably against Ivan's chest.

It was alright.

It was _nice_, even, somehow, to have someone holding him after so long, after all of those years in solitude in the West. He turned at some point in the night, without realizing it, and embraced Ivan around the neck. Ivan's grip upon him tightened.

It was nice.

The night passed uneventfully, and when the morning broke, he awoke to the sound of Ivan's pen, and when he opened his eyes, Ivan was sitting there next to him, waiting patiently for him to come around.

He was glad that he did not awake alone. Ivan was always with him.

He realized suddenly that _he _was making everything stressful and difficult. Not Ivan. All he needed to do was relax and cooperate, and he wouldn't have to worry about being held in between light and darkness, in the threshold of some door.

He was making things difficult.

Ivan did not ask so much of him, not really. Maybe he _had _been being selfish. He would try to be less difficult.

Ivan glanced down at him between papers, and finally asked, voice husky from disuse, "Are you ready to get up, or do you need more beauty sleep? It's almost noon."

Abashed, he lifted himself up at the waist, and squinted his eyes in the pale sunlight that streamed in, chest heavy with sleep.

"Sorry," he rasped, and Ivan was smiling.

He never used to sleep in so late.

...it seemed that lately, all he had been saying was, 'sorry, sorry, sorry'.

A heavy hand fell atop his head, and Ivan only said, easily, "Don't worry. You can sleep as long as you want. I don't mind sitting here with you, really I don't. I love spending time with you. I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

Ludwig smiled then, too, because it felt _good _to have someone say that they didn't mind sitting there with him, no matter how boring he was or how silent, and that they liked to just sit quietly in his presence. God, how many years had he spent trying to get _Gilbert _to stay with him?

Gilbert.

Strange. He hadn't thought about Gilbert at all the night before. He had not dreamt of him. Not even once.

He had thought about how much he missed _Berlin_, sure. But not Gilbert.

...strange.

He shrugged it off, and when Ivan stood up and extended a hand, he took it, and went about the day as normally as could ever be expected.

It was better not to think about Gilbert at all.

The day passed. Ivan's mood was good.

By the time the sun was setting again, his mood wasn't so bad either.

He could make things easier. All he had to do was try.

The second night, when it came, was just the same as the first.

Ivan sat up and worked silently until Ludwig fell asleep, and then Ivan came to bed hours later and threw an arm over his chest, and they slept.

The third night passed the same.

With every calm night, he was grateful that Ivan was acclimating him to this room, to this bed, to this _world_, so patiently. When he did what Ivan wanted, everything went so easily and so smoothly that it was almost astonishing.

So it _had _been him, after all, that had been the difficult one.

Some part of him almost felt ridiculous, that he had been so frightened of this room in the first place.

Ivan would not hurt him. He had promised.

Everything went on without great event, until the calendar marked the seventh.

And then when he woke up in the morning light, it was Irina, and not Ivan, who was sitting there on the bed next to him, watching him with a fond smile until he came into consciousness.

A Saturday morning.

"Good morning!" Irina chirped, merrily, as soon as she saw him looking up at her, and when he cleared his throat and responded politely, pulling the covers up to his chin in slight embarrassment, he was surprised at himself.

Because he was disappointed that it wasn't Ivan who was there with him.

Irina saw him looking over this way and that, and her smile was bright.

"He's gone. He went into town to get some things for tonight."

Tonight? What was happening tonight?

Before he could ask, she held out her hand, and said, "Here! This is for you! I thought I'd give it to you early. I'm forgetful sometimes, so its better to do it now before I start drinking." She laughed, loudly, and he sat up, staring down.

She held out a book.

"What's this for?" he finally managed, and she sent him a strange look, and shook the book in the air, waiting for him to take it.

"It's your Christmas present, silly! What did you think?"

Christmas? He had missed Christmas.

...hadn't he? Maybe he was going crazy.

Staring down at the book in her hand, he asked, dumbly, "What's today?"

She smiled, cheerily, oblivious to his confusion.

"The seventh, of course!"

As he furrowed his brow, she stared at him, and then she suddenly laughed again.

"Oh! That's right! You guys do it differently, don't you? Ivan told me, but, like I said, I'm forgetful sometimes! I'm sorry. Well, Christmas is on the seventh here, so that's why. And we get to have two New Year's days! Isn't that great? Of course, sometimes Ivan drinks too much, but then again, I do too, so I guess I shouldn't say anything."

Her fast words and loud voice and casual smile were almost too much for him to understand, and finally, he reached out and took the book.

Her smile was unshakeable.

So, then, tonight was when the Russians would celebrate their Christmas, and Ivan was out in town. What was he buying?

Who could say? How embarrassing.

His stomach squirmed with nervousness. He was not accustomed to normal Christmases. Usually, his Christmases ended up with a drunk Gilbert erupting into an argument with a tipsy Roderich.

And when they were _both_ drunk? Forget about it.

God only knew how _this _one would go.

"Do you like it?"

Finally, he looked down at the book, and his brow lowered.

A Russian dictionary.

A thoughtful gesture, no doubt, and how could she have known that such a gift would just be another silent blow to his independence? A painful reminder that Russia was his home now, not Germany, and if he really wanted to fit in, if he _really _wanted to survive, to move onward, then he had no _choice _but to learn Russian, a language that had once made him shudder just to hear it spoken.

But he smiled weakly at her nonetheless, and said, "Thank you," and was ashamed, because he had nothing for her. "Sorry. I didn't know, or I would have..."

He trailed off, as she held out arms.

"It's okay. I'll accept a hug."

He sat there for a minute, embarrassed, but damn if she wasn't so comforting, and he finally fell forward, and granted her a quick embrace.

He pulled back after a second, clearing his throat. She didn't seem to care about his awkwardness, and suddenly she had pulled out a pair of scissors from her pocket and snipped them threateningly in the air.

"Get up," she said, as she leaned towards him. "You need a haircut. Badly."

He obeyed, knowing that it was true, and he fell into the chair near the desk, holding the book to his chest, and as she hovered above him, snipping here and there and speaking aloud about nothing, he opened the first page. Seeing those strange letters on the paper, he was filled with something that felt like a mixture of despair and resignation, and as strands of platinum fell atop the page, he brushed them away, and began to study.

She looked pleased. He felt somewhat ill.

As she groomed him with that motherly affection he enjoyed, he would place his finger upon a syllable every so often, and as she leaned over his shoulder and pronounced it for him, he would fumble over it, and with every terrible attempt, he was steadily losing heart.

The tones and consonants felt strange on his tongue.

It was difficult.

She saw his look of defeat, maybe, and prodded his shoulder gently, saying, "Don't worry! It looks scary at first, but it'll get easier after a while." As an afterthought, and seeing his look of hopelessness, she added, "You know, Ivan never thought he would learn German. He used to sit there and look at the book like that, too. Some words are so long, and when you were sick, he called me over sometimes and made me pronounce everything for him." She laughed, and ruffled his now neatly clipped hair. "That's about the only thing I could ever help him with. He's so much smarter, but he used to hate Germans so he never wanted to learn. But he did. So he could talk to you."

He could feel the warm flush on his cheeks, and the thought of Ivan sitting and studying German with such determination just to speak to _him _was somehow thrilling.

Ivan, who hated Germans.

Well, Ivan had done it for him. He could at least try.

Spurred on by the desire to prove himself, and maybe also because he wanted to see the look on Ivan's face if he could one day say something to him in Russian, he kept the book close to his chest the entire morning, as Irina dragged him around the house, and every spare moment he tried to memorize a new letter.

He could do this.

The morning passed into the afternoon, Irina stuck with him every second (had Ivan told her he did not want to be alone?) and finally, after days of not being in sight, Toris reappeared, as if from thin air.

When Irina led Ludwig back to the kitchen for lunch, Toris was already in there, that boy at his side, and they sat at the table, a great bowl of water sitting there between them. When they saw them there, they looked up, and Toris smiled. "Hi, Irina!" Then Toris' eyes fell on Ludwig, and his voice was much lower and somewhat unfriendly, as he said, "Hey."

Ludwig gave a weak, "Hi," and felt a bit hurt as Irina went over and fell into conversation with Toris, who seemed to be ignoring his presence.

What had he done now? Toris, always so unhelpful.

A crack caught his attention, and he looked over to the boy, who was shelling walnuts. The empty shells were handed over to Toris, who aligned them in a neat little row.

Curious, he came over, even though Toris was in a strangely aggressive mood.

"I haven't seen you for a while, Toris," he tried, tentatively.

Toris sent him a quick glance, and only snipped, "I've been around."

"Oh."

He furrowed his brow, and lowered his eyes to the floor.

Irina pulled out a seat for him, and when he sat, she supplied conversation that Toris was denying. "Here, look, Ludwig! This will be nice for you! This is something that Toris does every Christmas. It's pretty neat! It's kind of like fortune-telling, I guess." She pointed to the little walnut shells, and then to the water, and added, "See? Each shell is like a little boat! You put a little candle in it and set it in the water, and if it makes it to the other side, then you'll have good luck all year!"

Toris snorted, and took up a long taper candle and knife, cutting it into small portions.

There were four shells, and Irina suddenly said, to Toris, "Don't you think you need one more?"

Toris glanced up, catching Ludwig's eye, and it was apparent to him that Toris had had no intention of involving him in this odd little Christmas tradition. And that was _fine _with him, but Irina's look had become stern, and Toris finally grumbled something to the boy, who set merrily upon cracking another walnut.

"Ludwig," Irina said, "You haven't even really met Raivis, yet, have you?"

His eyes fell upon the boy, and he shrugged a shoulder. "Yes. No. Well, not officially."

"Well," she continued, obviously intent on lightening the mood, "This is Raivis! I know you can't understand each other, but he's sweet. You'll get along."

At Irina's direction, the boy held out a hand, and Ludwig took it, shaking it gently.

Toris' brow was ever lowering.

The boy leaned in to Irina and whispered something eagerly in her ear, and she smiled.

Turning to Ludwig, she said, "Raivis says that he really likes your uniform. He wants to know if maybe you'll let him try on your hat one day."

The boy was smiling away, chin up in his palm, and despite himself, Ludwig couldn't help but smile.

"Sure."

Irina nodded, and the boy broke into a wide grin, and blabbered away.

Toris scoffed. Buzz-kill.

Placing his palms on the table as Toris took a piece of the candle and cut it down until the wick was visible above the top, he asked, "So, how does this work?"

Toris sat still, and after a second, Irina spoke up.

"Well, like I said, if the boat makes it to the other side, then supposedly it will be a good year for you. If it doesn't make it across then you'll have bad luck all year."

"What if the candle goes out? Or if it sinks?" he asked, and Toris sent him a severe look.

"Oh, well," Irina began, strangely, "I'm not sure! That's never happened before."

Toris was quick to supply, and said, simply, "You die."

...oh. Well.

Furrowing his brow, Ludwig rested his chin in his palm, and suddenly wished that Ivan had taken him with him. He would rather be with friendly, doting Ivan than with a foul Toris.

Jesus, what had he done _this _time?

Irina's hand suddenly fell upon his own, and she shoved a shell into his hand.

"Here," she said, and he looked down at it, smiling politely, even though this held little interest for him.

As if his fortune could really be told to him by walnuts and candles. Only Ivan could tell him his fortune, because Ivan controlled it.

The strike of a match brought him back to earth, and suddenly a little lit boat was floating on the surface of the water. Ivan's, as Irina explained, since apparently he, like Ludwig, had no interest for this and was never present for the sailing of his boat. Toris gave it a little shove with his finger, and it set out.

It made it across with no problem.

That did not surprise him, because Ivan was impervious to fate. Ivan made his own fate.

Raivis' boat sailed next. Like Ivan's, it made it across without a hitch.

...where was Ivan? What was he out doing? When would he be back?

Toris set the match and lit the candle on his own boat, and pushed it forward.

It got stuck in the center.

Toris leaned forward, watching it with a low brow, and when it became apparent that the boat would go no farther, his shoulders fell, and he plucked it out of the water with a heavy look.

Well, bad luck for Toris, then. That's what he got, Ludwig could not help but think, bitterly, for being so goddamn moody.

"Well," Toris said, casually, "At least I didn't sink!"

Ludwig only smiled, and stayed silent, because Toris' tone of calm was betrayed by his worried eyes, and it was obvious that he believed in this very much, and that his little candle had failed to reach the other side was exceedingly alarming to him.

Shouldn't be a jerk then.

Jerk.

Ludwig twirled his walnut shell restlessly in between his fingers, awaiting his turn even though he would not place much belief in the outcome of his little boat's journey.

Finally, after a second of carving up a new candle, Toris held out his hand, and Ludwig placed the empty shell in his palm, watching with only polite interest as Toris sat the candle inside and lit it, and set his boat down. A push of Toris' finger and the boat set sail, and somehow, Toris was more interested in his fate than _he _was, leaning forward and watching with intense eyes as the shell floated across the water.

A minute of slow chugging, and then the shell hit the other side.

A silence. Toris shifted his weight.

"Well. You made it," Toris finally said, voice somewhat strained, and when he reached down and plucked Ludwig's boat from the bowl, his smile was almost gone.

Ludwig could only shrug, and whisper, strangely, "It's just a game."

Toris waved him off, and carried on, as though desperate to keep his mind off of his own boat's failure. Obviously it was not just a game to superstitious Toris.

Irina's boat made it across the water, too, and by the time the afternoon faded into evening, Toris' mood had dampened.

For all it mattered. Ridiculous, believing such things.

Once lunch was finished, Toris disappeared again, no doubt to sulk, and Ludwig tried to take his mind off of Toris by returning his attention to his book.

Such _strange _people. Christ.

The high afternoon sun began to lower.

He had memorized the entire alphabet.

He found himself glancing up at the clock, and wondering why Ivan still had not returned. If Ivan had found more interesting ventures out around town, without him.

The sun lowered.

It started snowing again. The fierce winds picked up, so loud and unforgiving that the windows rattled in their frames, and he sat there on small sofa with Irina, in some room he had never been in but assumed was something like her dressing room, huddling into her side for warmth as he waited.

Irina tried to help him with his pronunciation, and sometimes she would stop and gush about how _happy _Ivan would be to see him studying Russian, and that only made him all the more impatient.

Ivan still had not returned.

The sun faded over the forest, and night returned.

He zoned out above the book, staring off into space as his fingers drummed the arm of the sofa, and he barely even noticed when Irina stood up and said, quickly, "Wait here, I've got to go check something. I'll be back."

He obeyed, mindlessly, because where would he go anyway, without Ivan?

Christmas was not something he was looking forward to. He would rather have just crept back upstairs and crawled into bed and pretended that he was sick, and that they could just carry on without him.

The wind howled outside. It was mercilessly cold without Irina next to him.

He was alone.

Shutting the book and placing it in his lap, he looked around at the dim room, as the shadows played in corners and the windows shook from the fierce wind and the high ceiling and long walls seemed to close in, and he shuddered.

He did not want to be alone.

Whispers.

He did not want to talk to _them_.

Where was Ivan?

The moonlight suddenly broke through the curtain as it fluttered, and he felt a cold dread flow through his veins like a river when he could _swear _that he saw a flash of silver in the darkness, a familiar voice close to his ear, and someone reached out and brushed the hair at the back of his neck—

Reaching up, he whirled around, certain he would see Gilbert, coming back to torment him some more, but there was no one behind him.

There was only a great cat, massive and brown, its golden eyes glowing in the light, and it stood upon the top of the sofa, kneading its claws into the fabric and watching him.

Watching him.

Uncomfortable, he scratched awkwardly at his collar, and the cat leapt to the floor and scurried to the door.

He didn't know _why_, but he stood up, and followed it. He did not want to be alone.

It darted through the halls, its bushy tail alert in the air as it weaved this way and that, and he kept close behind, clutching the book to his chest and trying to ignore the exceedingly eerie echo of his footsteps in the empty hallway.

Everything was dark. Where was everyone?

The windows were shaking, it was so cold that his breath puffed out visible in the moonlit air, and all of the doors were shut. So where, then, had Irina gone? Where was Toris? Why wasn't anyone in the hall? No lights streamed from under any of the doors. The alarm was rising. The cat sped up.

He could feel himself starting to panic.

What if something had happened?

What if Ivan had...

A ray of golden light suddenly cut across the hall, and it was with indescribable relief that he could see light coming out from under a door. The great cat fell before it and reached up, clawing the door as though it were beseeching him, somehow, to open it up for him.

He came before it, and reached out, gripping the handle in his hand. After a moment of nervous hesitation, he pushed it open.

Bright light. Warmth.

The cat darted through, and he shoved the door open the rest of the way, and stood in the frame.

He nearly sighed in relief. Everyone was there.

The fireplace roared ahead, drowning out the wind from outside, and the room was warm and lit up with the fire and the lamps, and before him stood Irina, speaking loudly in Russian, and before her, there was Ivan.

Ivan.

They did not see him there, until Ivan glanced up, perhaps sensing he was being watched, and he straightened up, tucking his hands in his pockets and smiling as he caught Ludwig's gaze.

Ludwig smiled back.

Irina turned around, then, and suddenly huffed, as though he had walked in on something he was not supposed to. He looked over to the side of the room, to where Toris and Raivis were trying to finish up the decorations on a tree.

It occurred to him that Ivan had been here for hours now, and had just been hiding away in this room until everything had been set up.

Thoughtful, no doubt, but unnecessary. He would rather have been with Ivan.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he realized that Irina was in front of him, speaking. He tried to listen, as Ivan's eyes bored into his own.

"Aw," Irina began, in disappointment, "I was going to surprise you!" She sent the cat below a half-hearted glare, and then sighed. "Oh, well. It's no big deal. Sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone."

Ludwig barely heard her words, as Ivan stood back in front of the fireplace, watching him with a pleased smile and smoldering eyes, as though he had been gone and had not seen Ludwig for _days_.

Somehow, he felt that way too.

Irina had suddenly taken the book from his hands, and as she reached towards an end table and tucked it away in a drawer, she sent him an almost devious smile, as though he should not let on to Ivan that he was studying Russian until he could form sentences.

Suddenly he felt much better, as the heat from the fireplace fought back the chill and the whispers in his ears stopped.

One last pat on his shoulder from Irina, and then she left his side, making a line for Ivan, who stood there with hands in his pockets and smiling easily, and looking very serene.

His eyes and stance were unusually docile.

It was strange, to see this calmer side of Ivan—_real _calm, not that calculated coolness that he always kept over himself—and somehow it was comforting, to know that any danger was likely at bay, at least for the night, and he felt a little more at home.

The cat was rubbing at his ankles.

The fireplace crackled.

He stood in the doorframe, shifting his weight awkwardly as they finished up whatever they had been doing and sat there on sofas and at the table, warm and bathed in the glow of the fire as the snow fell outside and the wind howled, and it was unusual.

It was almost like a normal Christmas, as the decorated tree glittered off to the side and glasses full of vodka cast lights on the walls.

Normal. Maybe that shouldn't have seemed as strange to him as it did.

Toris took a seat at the table across from Raivis, and they were speaking to each other amicably, and sometimes Toris would look over and watch him out of the corner of his eye, and would stare for a second, and then just turned away, as though he could not seem to think of anything to do or say. They were quiet and casual, and Toris was dressed more loosely than he had ever seen him, hair tousled and wavy as though he had not combed it, and Ludwig could see a bottle of vodka in between them, and it was with a furrowed brow that he saw Raivis fill up a glass and put it back like water.

For a second, Ludwig had the urge to march forward and take the bottle away, because he looked far too young to be drinking, but no one else even seemed to mind.

He kept still, and turned his eyes away as Toris sent him another strange look. He wished that Toris would come over to him, and help him find a place and feel more at home, take his hand and reassure him, but he just sat there. Unhelpful Toris.

Turning his attention across the room, he could see that Irina and Ivan were much more lively, passing a bottle back and forth, and speaking together. Irina was loud, as she always was, and Ivan watched her patiently. She suddenly held out her arms affectionately, but instead of embracing her, Ivan took her face gently within his great hands and kissed her fully upon the lips, and as she placed her hands on his arms, Ludwig could not help but smile.

To see Ivan so affectionate and subdued with Irina was almost hopeful.

It seemed that with every passing day, remembering that fear he had had was harder and harder.

Irina did not fear Ivan.

It made him wonder if he, too, would someday be so comfortable around Ivan.

Seconds of wordless devotion on both parts, and then Ivan pulled away and kissed her forehead, and he could only stand there as the cat continued to assault his ankles. It passed his mind, as Irina took a seat with a content look upon her face, that she had been the only thing, so long ago, that had prevented Ivan from slipping completely over the edge of insanity's cliff, because she had loved her little brother and had tried her best to protect him, even if she had failed, and that was why Ivan would never harm her, and why he would do anything for her, why he was so protective of her, and maybe Irina was the only person on the earth that wielded power over Ivan.

How strange.

Unassuming Irina, ditzy and emotional and loud, the exact opposite of Ivan, and yet she had kept the floodgates closed all these years...

The only woman Ivan had ever loved.

His thoughts were interrupted when the great cat suddenly stood up on its back legs and used his thigh as a scratching post.

Gritting his teeth, he glowered down at it, but did not shake it off, as Ivan had broken away from Irina and was steadily approaching him. The smile on Ivan's face was evident, and when he was so close that he could feel Ivan's warmth, there was a sudden movement, and for a dizzy second he thought that Ivan was going to kiss him in front of everyone, but he only reached down and took up the massive cat under his arm.

"Sasha," he said, as he straightened up, the cat's paws kneading air in contentment as Ivan carried it, and Ludwig could only manage a dumb, "Huh?" as Ivan's scorching eyes burned into his own.

"Sasha," he repeated, moving his arm to indicate the cat, "His name is Sasha. He's spoiled because of Irina. Don't let him bother you."

"Oh," was his simple response, and some part of him wished that Ivan would just set the damn cat down and take up his hand instead, and they could ditch this crowded room and go to bed instead, so that his head would stop hurting and so that Ivan would be with him.

...where had that come from?

Trying to suppress the blush that threatened to come, he stepped forward and shut the door behind him, and Ivan led him into the room with a soft, cheery, "Do you like it? We never bother putting up a tree. Too much trouble since it's just going to get thrown out, you know." He looked over his shoulder, and when he caught Ludwig's eye, his expression was fond as he added, "But Christmas trees are a German thing, aren't they? I thought it would make you feel at home."

For a second, Ludwig could only stiffen his shoulders, because it _did _make him feel more at home and the thought that Ivan had gone out of his way to do such a thing just for _him _was thrilling, and suddenly the urge to reach out and embrace Ivan was becoming overwhelming.

It took every ounce of self-control he had to suppress it, and yet somehow, he suspected that Ivan could read his mind.

Ivan knew everything.

Finally, Ivan handed the cat off to Irina, who took it eagerly, and when he turned around, Ludwig fully expected to be embraced, like he usually was.

Ivan only smiled, and took up a glass from the coffee table, filling it to the brim with vodka and shoving it into his hands.

"Here," he said, coolly, "I want to make sure you have a good time."

Then he walked off, drinking as he looked around the room and observed his efforts, and Ludwig was left to stare after him with a furrowed brow, and he suspected somehow that he was being played again.

Ivan was denying physical contact.

Why?

He narrowed his eyes as Ivan glanced back and sent him an almost triumphant look, and he realized that Ivan was either trying to see how long he would last without grabbing his hand or was trying to deprive him until it was time to sleep so that he would be more responsive.

Ivan, with that wolfish sixth sense, was just playing another game.

Well, at least he was not alone in this room, so he could survive without Ivan's hand around his own.

He would play along.

Leaning back against the edge of the fireplace, he chose to observe rather than interact. That was for the best, perhaps, as Toris and Raivis were conversing and Ivan came back over to Irina, and he may have felt like a third wheel intruding upon either of them.

Time passed.

His glass was half empty.

The vodka was flowing.

He was obviously surrounded by heavy drinkers. Raivis put back half a bottle by himself. Ivan was on his fifth glass.

It surprised him that Irina drank just as much as Ivan did, maybe even more, and to see her put back shot after shot after shot, drinking in those little glasses more than Ivan had in his cup, her cheeks red and eyes bleary, and _still _be able to stand was astounding.

The bottle was almost empty, just between her and Ivan.

Even Toris was drinking.

With loud laughter, Irina suddenly leaned over clumsily and flipped on the radio, and the room was filled with very cheery music. The atmosphere was ever lightening.

He started his second glass.

Time passed.

He shifted his weight, feeling less and less out of place as the vodka ran through his veins.

The hour grew late.

Raivis fell first, and when Ludwig looked over, his head was on the table and he was out like a light, leaving Toris to drink alone.

Toris was a lightweight, even more than himself, and after another half and hour or so of light drinking he was swaying precariously as he shuttered back and forth from the table to the sofa, maybe because there was nothing else for him to do. He had never seen Toris drink, and when Ivan was distracted with loud Irina, he slipped away from the fireplace and stole over to him.

"Hi, Toris."

Toris looked over at him with bleary eyes, and after a second of hesitation, he smiled.

"Hey, Ludwig. Having fun?"

"Something like that," he said, as Toris fell against the table to support himself, and for a moment, Ludwig thought he would just drop to the floor and fall asleep. Suddenly a realization hit him, something that he had not noticed earlier but should have, and he added, almost guiltily, "Your cast's off. How does your arm feel?"

Clumsily, and with a sloppy smile, Toris lifted his left arm up and flexed it in the air.

"Just about as good as new."

Ludwig tried to smile, too, but it fell quickly when Toris' eyes darkened, and he sent him a narrowed-eyed look of something that could have been distaste.

"So," he began, quietly so that no one else would hear, "What's it like in Ivan's bed? I was going to ask you earlier, but..." He laughed, thinly, and followed up with, "I thought you'd be so proud that you'd tell everyone on your own."

The words were so sharp and the tone so spiteful that Ludwig could only stand there silent, and instead of combativeness, he could only feel the sinking of his heart, and a certain hurt.

That was why Toris had disappeared from sight, then, these past few days. Just because of that? It wasn't _his _fault. He hadn't asked to move into Ivan's room. It had just happened. He had no control here. Ivan did everything.

Toris watched him expectantly, as though just _waiting _for him to retort, but he did not. He did not want to fight. Why couldn't Toris understand?

Finally, after a very tense silence, Toris snorted and looked straight ahead, muttering lowly, "Didn't think you'd be ashamed."

He wasn't ashamed. So what if Ivan and he were sharing a bed?

It wasn't like they were...

Well.

Feeling the burn on his cheeks as his head filled with exceedingly embarrassing scenarios, he tried his best to keep the peace, and stayed silent, ignoring dutifully his injured pride. Toris continued to glance at him, irritably, as though there were many more things he would like to say, but finally he only heaved a sigh, and staggered drunkenly towards the unoccupied couch.

Ludwig followed.

He liked Toris. He did not want to pass the night on bad terms.

Tossing himself down heavily on the couch, Toris fell back, and seemed annoyed when Ludwig sat down next to him.

Ivan was still distracted with Irina, but who could say for how long? Ivan wouldn't be angry, would he, if he talked to Toris?

"Will you stop followin' me?" Toris grumbled, voice thick and slurred, and when he tried to pull himself back up, he succeeded only in falling back down. Ludwig reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him, and at his touch, something shifted in Toris' gaze.

His stance fell in what could have been defeat, and he collapsed back, throwing his hands over his eyes and groaning.

Ludwig pitied Toris. How could he stay angry with him? Toris was good-natured. Toris was a friend.

Even if he sometimes did not act like one.

Without thinking and desperate for friendly contact, having been deprived of all humanity save for Ivan, he reached out and grabbed Toris' shoulders, gently, and pulled him up against his chest. And when he lifted his hands and smoothed down Toris' messy hair, intertwining his fingers in the long strands, Toris froze up as stiff as a board beneath him, and Ludwig could practically hear his heart racing.

It was obvious that Toris had lacked such gentle contact, too.

God only knew for how long. Poor Toris.

Seconds of painful silence and immobility, as Ludwig ran his fingers through his hair as non-threateningly as possible, and then finally Toris heaved a great sigh and collapsed against him, and closed his eyes.

Pleased, he fiddled with Toris' hair, for lack of anything else to do, and every so often he would feel eyes upon him, and when he looked up, Ivan was watching him with something that looked like curiosity, mingled with fondness and a certain distaste.

Like a parent who watched their precious child playing with a very dirty stray dog, but did not have the heart to tell them to get away from it.

As if, in Ivan's eyes, Ludwig was degrading himself somehow by holding Toris up against him. As if Ludwig was only embarrassing himself by treating Toris kindly.

Ludwig could not hold Ivan's intense gaze, and turned his eyes back down to Toris, who was drifting.

Poor Toris. It wasn't Toris' fault that he sometimes snapped.

Lowering his arms, he laid them across Toris' chest, pulling him back into a firm embrace, and Toris started awake, jumping in his arms and trying to pull away.

Ludwig did not release him. He thought he heard Ivan scoff from off to the side.

Hadn't Ivan ever embraced Toris? From the terrible way he flinched, the answer appeared to be 'no'.

Another moment of rigidness, and, like before, when Toris realized no harm was coming, he relaxed. Leaning back, he raised wobbly arms and placed his hands above Ludwig's, and suddenly said, "I hope you've been alright."

A silence, and he responded, simply, "I'm okay."

"You're really brave, you know," Toris continued, and Ludwig's melancholy was slowly dissipating. "You handle everything so well. I think I'm jealous of you sometimes."

"I don't feel very brave, Toris, if it's any consolation."

It must have been.

"Ludwig," Toris slurred, as he grabbed up Ludwig's hands within his own, "Hey, listen... I'm sorry about earlier. I wasn't tryin' to be such a jerk. I don't blame you for anything, you know, I just get so frustrated sometimes! But I don't... I don't mean to take it out on you. I really don't. So if I ever say something or do something stupid, it's not because I don't like you. I really do like you! I do. I don't mean to be a jerk. If I ever upset you, I'm really sorry. I'm just a big dumbass, sometimes..."

Ludwig could only smile, gripping the drunken Toris' hands as Toris leaned back against his chest, and when he rested his chin on the top of Toris' head, he felt much better suddenly.

He was glad that Toris did not resent him.

He could have fallen asleep right there, splayed out on the couch with warm Toris pressed up against his chest and as the fire crackled, embracing a friend, but someone else had other ideas. Suddenly there was a large hand upon Toris' arm, and when he looked up, Ivan was looming over. For a moment, Toris went completely stiff and still, like he had earlier, and when Ivan wrenched Toris up (and not gently), he scrambled away as quickly as he could for his intoxication, eyes wide with alarm.

"Get off," Ivan grunted, as he shoved Toris backwards, and Ludwig sat up straight in tentativeness.

Ivan's blazing eyes calmed the second they fell upon Ludwig, and when he extended a hand, saying, "Come with me. Spend some time with me," his voice was so gentle and eager that Ludwig could only accept the offered hand, and he did not really realize that he was smiling. Toris watched them silently from the side, swaying as he sought to keep his balance, and there was no mistaking the hurt in his eyes. Ludwig shrugged it off.

Toris would be just fine. Toris had Irina and Raivis, drunk though they were. Ludwig did not need to suffocate Toris with his presence every second.

He had not seen Ivan all day.

"Come," Ivan whispered, gripping his hand firmly and yanking him to his feet, and he could hear the slur in Ivan's voice, even against the backdrop of Irina and the music. "I missed you. Come on, I have something for you."

Ivan's German was strange and clumsy when he was drunk, endearingly accented and choppy, and Ludwig, enjoying the feel of Ivan's warm hand around his own, allowed Ivan to drag him towards the door.

He did not look back, his attention focused completely on Ivan.

Toris would be fine.

For a minute, he felt a rush of pride in his chest, because he had won the game that Ivan had started without even trying to. Ivan had not wanted to embrace him, so he had embraced Toris, and Ivan would not stand it. He had won, and it was Ivan, in the end, who had taken _his _hand.

The warmth of the room was gone as they entered the hall, but it didn't matter.

He was with Ivan.

A scaling of stairs, Ivan's hand squeezed his own, and then the bedroom door was ahead.

His heart raced. What did Ivan have in store?

The door was pushed open, and he was dragged through the frame. The door quickly shut, and this time Ivan did not flip on the light, and before he could utter a word he found himself whirled around and thrust up against the wall.

A moment of crushing heaviness and thick air, as Ivan pinned him in place by placing inescapable arms on either side of him, and, with that closet door looming in the darkness behind, it was easy just to stand there as that strange new submissiveness took over.

Ivan leaned forward, resting his face in Ludwig's hair, and it was obvious from how he struggled to maintain his balance that he had drank too much again.

The atmosphere was not so frightening this time.

Ivan seemed safe right now.

Pressed against the wall, barely able to breathe, he could only entangle his hands in Ivan's shirt and listen as Ivan breathed heavily in his ear, "I missed you today. Did you miss me too?"

He did not need to respond, for Ivan did not even give him time to open his mouth before he laughed coarsely, mostly to himself, and then he said, lowly, "Ludwig! You should not be so nice to Toris. You're just wasting your time. You're too valuable to baby-sit. Don't bother with him. Who needs to be nice to Toris? Waste of time."

He laughed again, and his hands flew down, grabbing Ludwig's waist and pulling him in and hissing to no one, "That's Irina's job."

Too close to this situation to be aware of Toris' needs, the only thought that crossed his mind was that when Ivan said his name, '_Ludwig_' sounded more like '_Lyudovik_'.

He liked how Ivan said his name.

He stood there, silent and still, as Ivan muttered lowly in that drunken mash of German and Russian that was almost completely incomprehensible and pressed him back, and the warm contact was welcome after a day of nothing.

"Oh!" Ivan suddenly cried, pulling back, "Your present. Here, I have it here."

He pulled away completely, leaving Ludwig to stand there awkwardly as he staggered over to the desk in the corner and flipped on the lamp. As Ivan pulled out the drawer and rummaged through, he took careful steps forward, keeping a very alert eye on the closet door.

Just in case.

Finally, Ivan found what he was looking for, and was approaching. He was smiling.

The nervousness was back.

"Here, this is for you," Ivan said, quickly, and before he could react, he had thrust an envelope into Ludwig's hands. "I hope you like it. I wanted to get you flowers, too, but damn town shops didn't have any." Ivan swayed, smiling lopsidedly as he watched Ludwig expectantly.

He looked down, at the inconspicuous envelope, and could only imagine what lay within it.

Who knew what Ivan's idea of a Christmas gift was?

He was reluctant to open it, and he could not push away the feeling of inadequacy.

"I don't have anything for you," he finally muttered, feeling somewhat ashamed.

Ivan sent him a stern look, and his voice was suddenly harsh as he said, "What could you possibly give me? I have everything. I don't need you to give me anything. Did I ask you for something?"

Ludwig could only lower his eyes to the envelope, shifting his weight anxiously under Ivan's strict tone and feeling that prick of anxiety in his chest, but the intimidating air passed as quickly and randomly as it had come, and suddenly Ivan was behind him, embracing him and resting his chin upon Ludwig's shoulder.

He could smell the vodka.

"I don't need you to give me anything," Ivan repeated, much more gently, "I just want you to stay with me all the time. That's all I want."

The anxiety was gone, and his shoulders relaxed as Ivan's firm grip forced him to sway back and forth as Ivan tried to maintain his bearings despite his inebriation.

The envelope was light in his hands.

"Well?" Ivan asked, eagerly, breath warm in his ear, "Aren't you going to open it?"

After a quiet hesitation, he did, reaching up with clumsy fingers to pull apart the seal at the top. When he reached in, he pulled out a stack of papers. He could feel Ivan shifting excitedly behind him.

He could only stand there, and he was glad suddenly that Ivan was gripping his waist, because otherwise he might have fallen to the floor.

Papers. Just papers. But they hit him harder than any bullet ever could.

The first paper that he held caught his attention immediately, and it was no surprise why; there was a photo of himself there, and he recognized a _horrible _picture that Gilbert had snapped of him on his eighteenth birthday, where he had looked so serious and so much older than he was that Gilbert had picked on him for months afterward. He studied the document, after a second of complete disbelief, and then he realized that it was a housing form from the GDR.

He had never resided in the GDR as an adult, and he had never had any homes in his name.

With trembling hands, he moved it to the back, and there was another paper.

Two pages. Two languages. German and Russian. Reading the German side, he could see that it was an official form of relocation, with the visa stamp and the diplomatic seal needed to authorize a change of residence from the GDR to the USSR.

He flipped to the next paper.

That same photo of himself, and there was a name at the top.

Müller, Ludwig.

It was a military record. Credentials, his rank (colonel, of course), his school records (falsified), the length of time in service, recommendations, even false psych evaluations.

He turned to the next paper.

The false school records that had been in the military document.

He flipped to the next.

Medical records.

Next.

An authorization of legal immigration into the USSR. A false address. The paper that made him a resident, if not yet a citizen, of the Soviet Union.

A tiny card. A national identification number.

A Russian driver's license.

And then there was one last paper, and as soon as he had laid eyes upon, he had to cover his mouth with his hand and inhale to keep himself from bursting into tears.

A birth certificate.

Everything he had never had was suddenly before him.

A name. Müller, Ludwig.

A birth date. Born May 9th, 1944, in the University Hospital in Dresden.

_Parents_. Johann and Helga Müller.

He knew it was just a fake, he knew it, but _God_...

To _see _it...

Ten years old, and he had asked Gilbert about his real parents, if he had known anything, anything at all, about why they had abandoned him, left him alone in the streets, and Gilbert had just frozen up and finally deflected with a lame, 'Who needs 'em, anyway?'

_He _had needed them.

Thirteen, and he had asked Roderich to take him back down to where he had found him, in the hopes that he could find something. But who could search without knowing what they were searching _for_?

He didn't even know his name.

Fifteen, and he had stood out there in front of the university for the first time, knowing that he could never go there.

He had no school records.

Twenty, and he had finally answered Alfred's question, after so many times evading, about why he had brought no pictures of his parents with him to the new flat.

He didn't _have _any parents. They had not wanted him.

He had never had a birth certificate, and had never acquired a license or a national identification number or registered to vote.

He had spent his entire life...

So many years...

He had wanted to see that paper. To know that he really belonged somewhere. Anywhere.

Even though it was fake, and even though it was just something that Ivan had created for him illegally (albeit very skillfully and _very _convincingly; enough to fool even the government), it didn't matter.

He could see it. He could hold it. It offered him everything he had ever wanted. A life. An identity.

"I looked all over Berlin for records of you," Ivan whispered in his ear, as he clutched the birth certificate tightly to his chest, held up straight by Ivan's arms around his waist, "But you didn't have anything, really. It was easy. I made all new papers for you. Do you like them? See, look, my parents were Ivan and Olga, so I just changed it to German, see, because we're really just the same you and I."

He did not speak, for fear that if he opened his mouth he would lose his battle with tears.

He had never been _anyone_. He had never belonged. Just a lost soul, plucked up off of the streets at Roderich's whim.

Nameless. Parentless. Alone.

The paper was fake. It didn't matter.

Ivan suddenly buried his face in Ludwig's neck, stumbling a bit as he fought with balance, and Ludwig could hear the rough possessiveness in his voice as he whispered, "Now we can always be together."

Ludwig only heard, 'Now you can't ever leave me.'

All of a sudden, that suppressed part of him that contained his logic and distrust and self-awareness raised its ugly head, and he could see it as plain as day in his mind : Ivan, sitting at his office desk when Ludwig had been locked in that room, researching and calling favors to his people in Berlin, and when he had all the information he had needed, he had probably laughed to himself and said aloud, 'Too easy!' because it probably really _was _too easy for someone like Ivan to take advantage of someone like _him_, someone without parents and without a strong sense of identity. He had called Toris over and gloated aloud as he had ordered Toris into town to acquire these illicit documents, and _that _was where Toris had _really_ been those days he had been out of sight, and Ivan had always known that he would be playing a very powerful psychological wild card—

_I always win._

Creating Ludwig an identity anew, to instill loyalty and win his allegiance. To create unwavering, unquestioning devotion. Ivan had given him his own parents' names, to create between them some kind of invisible bond. Ivan was playing the role of savior, guide, mentor, rescuer, the knight in shining armor, whisking him away from such volatile, uncertain, _lost _territory and bringing into a very still, frozen world, and giving to him a new name and new family and proclaiming that he was loved and needed here.

Ivan had given him the birth date of May 9th. The day Germany had surrendered to the Soviet Union. Like he had surrendered to Ivan.

The voice of reason said this new identity and all that came with it was the beginning of the end, the final breaking of the ice, because Ivan was _dangerous_. Unpredictable. Deceitful.

Ivan lied.

He could _feel _the paper in his hand.

The voice of reason in his head was just a voice. It was never there when he really needed it. It had abandoned him in that room. It had abandoned him in his time of need.

Fuck it. He didn't need it. So what if Ivan had had some kind of ulterior motive for this gift? So what if Ivan lied?

It didn't matter.

Everyone lied.

God, he _longed _to be lied to. No one had ever given him anything with more meaning.

Ivan said he wanted him to stay. That was alright. He wasn't going anywhere. Suddenly, with the feel of that paper in his hands, he didn't _want _to go anywhere.

He had never been anyone.

Ivan's warmth from behind was suddenly gone, and then he was beside of him, reaching out and taking the paper with gentle hands. "Here," he said, as he tried to pry them from Ludwig's fingers, "I'll put them somewhere safe."

He held fast. He did not want to let them go.

Ivan's sloppy smile was patient as he tugged more forcefully.

"It's okay. I won't let anything happen to them. I promise."

Promise. Ivan always kept his promises.

Reluctantly, he finally let Ivan take the papers, and when Ivan staggered unsteadily over to the desk and tucked them away in a drawer, he looked up, and said to Ludwig, "I don't care who you really are. Why would it matter? Maybe it's better not to know where you came from. We're together now. That's all I care about. Names are just names. I'd love you no matter what you were called."

No matter what. An offering of unconditional love.

Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes as he struggled to keep himself together. He did not want to cry in front of Ivan.

Everything he had ever wanted...

He could feel Ivan's eyes upon him, and he could feel too the changing of the tide, even if he couldn't put a name to it, or even _understand _it, but he was aware, however vaguely, that he wouldn't ever need to go back to Berlin, because there was nothing in Berlin for him now and everything he had ever wanted was suddenly right here in the place he had least suspected.

In the freezing ice of Siberia. In Ivan.

Finally, after a moment of forcing his throat to unclench, he finally managed to mutter, voice thick with the effort, "If... If I ever go back to Berlin, I..."

He trailed off, and it was not because he was threatened by tears.

He lost his voice again because the _second _the word 'Berlin' had dropped from his lips, something shifted.

He could have heard a pin drop for the crushing silence, and Ivan stared at him suddenly with _that _look.

Darkness. Silence. Ivan's eyes had gone from that calm lake to a typhoon.

Danger.

He realized immediately his mistake.

It was an innocent one. He had meant to say, 'If _we _ever go back to Berlin, it won't even mean anything at all to me,' because it was true, but it had come out wrong.

Ivan misunderstood.

He had tried to articulate his feeling of gratitude. He had said it wrong.

And Ivan, in his state of intoxication, had only heard, 'One day I'll go back to Berlin'.

Ivan heard a declaration of desertion. That one day he would abandon Ivan, even though Ivan had promised never to abandon _him_.

The storm clouds burst.

He remembered once again how foolish he was to feel secure in his position around Ivan, how foolish he was to _ever _think that Ivan's moods could be predicted, because everything could suddenly turn on a dime, and Christ, he should have remembered that from the first time.

There were no truly 'safe' moments. Any second, no matter how tranquil, could suddenly darken.

"Don't ever," Ivan began, and _never _had his voice been so terrible as it was now, as he slammed his fists on the desk and screeched, not screamed, but _screeched_, "Don't _ever _say that word again! Don't ever! How could you—all I've _done _for you since you've been here! I do _everything _for you! I've given you _everything _you wanted, haven't I? And all you think about is going back _there_! I've been kind to you, haven't I? I've taken care of you, haven't I? Didn't I save you? _Twice_? You keep betraying me, but I keep forgiving you because I'm the _only _one that will care for you! I've made so many inconveniences for myself just to go after _you_!"

The lamp was slapped furiously to the floor.

The bulb flickered.

"What more do I have to _do _for you? _Tell _me! All I've done for you, and for all I get I should have just let you die there in the snow! I should have just shot you and saved myself all of this _goddamn _trouble! I made those papers for you, didn't I? For what? So you can take them back _there _and pretend like you're really someone? You're _nothing _without me! No one else even remembers you exist! No one else will have you! I'm the only one that loves you! You don't have anyone else! How do you repay me? By wanting to go back _there_? You live _here _now! _You can't ever go back there_! I'd hate you _forever _if you ever went back! You're just like everyone else! I shouldn't have ever taken up a German! I've done everything for you! How easily you forget! You're nothing without me! You're nobody back there! You don't even have a name! So, what, I've given you a name now so you want to go and use it there? I won't ever let you go back _there_! You'll leave me like _he _left _you_? He doesn't want you, so why would you want to go back _there_? No one will ever love you like I do! Only I could love _you_! You're nobody without _me_!"

Ludwig stood frozen, speechless and not even daring to breathe.

The words _hurt_, because they were true.

_I'm the only one that loves you._

Ivan was the only one he had.

Oh God. Ivan had created from nothing a history. He was nobody.

What had he done?

"How could you?"

Ivan reached forward suddenly in his wrath, sweeping his hand out and sending the rest of the items on the top of the desk flying to the floor, and God, he wanted to cry out and say, 'Please, don't hurt the papers!' because it would damage him beyond repair to have that identity suddenly ripped away from him, but his voice caught in his throat.

He couldn't move.

_You're nothing without me._

He could not bear for Ivan to hate him.

Ivan left the desk and started pacing the room in a wrathful hurricane, retreating into himself as he began to whisper and hiss to himself in words that Ludwig could not understand, barely keeping himself from bumping into walls as his rage and drunkenness guided his feet.

Ludwig stood still.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt sick with nervousness and guilt and a horrible fear, and above all, he was _so _confused.

So confused.

He was certain that he said Ber—_that word _in front of Ivan before. He was sure of it.

...hadn't he?

He hadn't meant it like that. It was just a word. He had said it before. So why _now _was Ivan so furious? Had he really hurt Ivan so? Was this anger false?

He didn't think so. Not with that look.

Ivan continued to storm across the room furiously before him, muttering incoherently to himself, brow low and eyes wrathful and so _dark_, and for a terrible moment, Ludwig was certain that he had lost Ivan again, just as he lost him that night he had put the gun to his head.

What could he do to extinguish this fire he had started?

Anxious and _scared _and hoping to avoid another round of darkness, he gathered together whatever bravery he possessed (which was hardly any), took a great, deep breath, and leapt forward. As Ivan stalked across the room like a whirlwind, all he could think to do was to reach out and grab a hold of his arm, and say, weakly, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!"

He hadn't.

He hadn't wanted to _leave_. Ivan had misunderstood.

For a second, Ivan's arm wrenched up into the air, breaking Ludwig's grasp and hovering above as though he were seconds away from striking, and Ludwig, desperate to prevent this dam from breaking and not knowing what else to _do_, reached out again, and threw his arms around Ivan's neck, burying his face in Ivan's collar and moaning, voice muffled, "I'm sorry! I don't want to leave. I don't."

A twitch from Ivan beneath him, and he could only tense and prepare himself for whatever was coming as he could feel the muscles tightening in Ivan's shoulders, but there was only a still silence.

How long before the silence was broken by the slamming of a door?

He waited.

Ivan did not strike him.

A quiet hesitation.

Then Ivan's shoulders slumped, and maybe he had come back from whatever dark he had gone off into and maybe the voices had stopped too, for he reached down and grabbed up Ludwig and embraced him so tightly that he was lifted clean off the floor, and he had never known such relief when he heard Ivan's voice soft in his ear, low and almost despondent, "You can't ever go back there. You'll stay here with me, won't you? I don't want you to go away. I hate it when you're gone."

The dark was gone. The dam stood strong.

He would have to be more careful.

Oh God, he would have to be so much more careful. His carelessness had almost brought upon that calamity, that horrible darkness that enveloped Ivan and took him wherever it did, and if he lost Ivan, then there was always that underlying possibility that Ivan would take out the gun again, and who knew whether it would have bullets or not the next time?

Or maybe there would be inescapable oblivion.

Ivan's arms were tight around him, and he stayed completely still, hardly daring to breath, let alone move, until Ivan finally released him minutes later and grabbed up his hands, and now he was smiling again, as though nothing had ever happened.

As if everything was just fine.

Maybe it was. The dark was gone.

"You'll stay here with me, won't you?" Ivan asked again, and he could only return the grip upon Ivan's hands, and nod.

He hadn't wanted to leave.

Ivan's brow came up, and his shoulders relaxed, and Ludwig could see that the danger had passed, at least for now.

His new papers were tucked safely away in the desk. His new identity was secure.

A birth certificate.

The passport to stay here with Ivan. He wasn't going anywhere.

Ivan tightened the grip on his hands, pale eyes cool and calm, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle again, not that horrible screech of fury, as he whispered, heavily, "I knew you would. See, you were meant for me, you know. That's why I know you won't think about going back there."

The words were more of a very serious suggestion, as though something terrible would happen if Ivan discovered that he had, after all, still been thinking about going back _there_.

He shook his head, and Ivan finally smiled. He would never say _that word _again.

Ivan continued, easily, running his thumbs over the back of Ludwig's hands affectionately, "You see how well everything worked out? There's nothing back there for you anyway! I'm the only one that cares about you now. If you ever went back, they wouldn't want you anymore, because of that uniform you wore. Remember what you did? They'll call you a murderer, and they'll turn their backs on you. I'm the only one that cares for you. That's why you can't go back. You have to stay here, because we're the same, you and I. I can keep you safe here. They'll call you a murderer. Don't you remember what you did?"

The words cut.

...murderer?

No, no, no, he hadn't pulled the trigger of the gun. The blood that had filled that room had been on Ivan's hands, not his—

_I did that for you. I would do anything for you._

But Ivan had done that for _him_, and that made it _his _fault, one way or the other, and everyone would pin it on him. Gilbert and Erzsébet would be nervous around him. Alfred would never be able to distinguish him from the Reds and would be distant and distrustful. And Roderich, ambassador and diplomat and an advocate of human rights, would be _so _ashamed.

Roderich would turn his back, and say, 'I should never have brought you home'.

His papers were all new. In Russian.

Oh God.

How could he ever show his face around them again? He could never go back. Ivan was only telling him the difficult truth.

They would not want him anymore.

"You don't want to go back, do you?"

Ivan's voice was gentle.

They would be ashamed.

Numbly, he shook his head, and lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Hey, it's alright," Ivan crooned, eagerly, "Who cares about them anyway? You don't need them anymore. They must not have cared about you in the first place. They haven't even been looking for you, or trying to find you. They don't miss you. So don't miss them. You have me, don't you? Just forget you ever knew them. You've got a new name now. You belong here now. Forget everything else."

Forget...

Ivan was erasing his former life out from beneath his feet. Wiping the slate of his memory.

And the most frightening part was how _easy _it was to forget.

It was easier to think of Ivan than it was to think of _them_. It was easier to hear Ivan's voice. It was easier to reach out and feel Ivan's hand than it was to try to remember how Gilbert's felt.

That world meant nothing to him now.

He had a new name.

Ivan had been _so _angry when he had said _that word _haphazardly, and so that must have meant that Ivan cared for him more than they did, and Ivan always stayed at his side, and Roderich and Erzsébet could just carry on with their marriage and think no more of him, and Alfred would just go to school and be normal, and Gilbert would just drink himself to death like he had been doing all along.

They weren't looking for him.

Ivan did not want him to go away.

It would be better for everyone to just forget them, and focus all of his attention on Ivan, who was already proving to be a full-time job, between his constant need to be _together _and the dangerously thin line of his sanity, and it would be Ivan, in the end, who stayed at his side.

He could forget them, he was sure, in time.

In the meanwhile, he would just have to be careful...

To never say _that word _in front of Ivan again. Ivan's wrath was more frightening than any storm could have ever been, than any explosion or any night, and he could not bear to be in its path again. He could not bear the sound of Ivan screaming.

He would never say _that word _again. He would not upset Ivan.

And it didn't matter anyway, because he would never go back to—

_That word, that word, that word, that word_—

—again. So it didn't matter.

He would never go back. Ivan was the only one that accepted him.

He was dead to the outside world. They wouldn't have him anymore.

Ivan's fingers intertwined with his own.

He could forget, in time.

Ivan pulled him into the bed, and when he lied atop of him and pinned him down, heavy and warm, Ludwig threw his arms around Ivan's neck, and God, _God_, he would have done _anything_, anything at all, if Ivan would only have reassured him that he was wanted here and that he was _needed _and that he was not a _murderer_.

He would have done anything.

But Ivan only collapsed above him, constricting his chest with his weight, and crooned, "I won't ever leave you," and passed straight out. Pinned to the bed and immobile, Ludwig could only cling to Ivan and try to ignore the horrible distress at being left alone in such a vulnerable state, and stare up at the map past Ivan's shoulder, just like he had those other nights.

This time, he forced himself to keep his eyes on Russia.

He did not look over _there_. Ivan would have gotten angry.

Russia was home now.

Maybe that was for the best.

_Murderer._

If they had forgotten him, as Ivan had said, then so what if he never went back? Who needed them, anyway?

Russia was home now.

Ivan lied above him the whole night through.

Ivan loved him.

He needed Ivan's words of comfort. He needed Ivan's support and confidence.

He needed Ivan.

This was his home now. He had been created a new life here.

Who needed _them_?

* * *

><p><strong>AN : **If you're interested, and yes, I know you're really not, the walnut shell boat thing is actually a Czech/Slovak tradition, not a Lithuanian one (I think they use candle wax), but I always do this at Christmas so I thought I'd share it with you because I'm a loser and it's really pretty to see little walnut boats with candles in the water when the lights are off. Of course, we usually just play bumper-walnut-boats and see who dies first. XD


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

_Do you remember..._

White sunlight.

_...how you promised..._

A coldness.

_...that we'd always be together?_

Heaviness in his chest.

_Forever._

"Hey."

A soft voice at his side. Another voice whispering in his ear.

Or maybe just in his head.

"Hey. Hey, you awake?"

Was he?

Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Gilbert managed only to shift his weight, inhale as he came around, and when he finally started awake, he looked over with bleary eyes, and rasped, "Yeah."

Someone was smiling at him.

Where was he?

The smell of leather and the burn of a heater. The whir of an engine.

Golden hair shining in the morning sun.

Ludwig?

"Sorry if I woke you."

Seconds of incomprehension, and then he realized with a pang that it was not Ludwig that was smiling at him.

It was his other guide. Eduard, his name was, if he remembered correctly.

Looking around, wearily, Gilbert realized that he was in the car, slumped up against the door, half-asleep as Eduard sat there, staring at him. Turning his eyes to the foggy window, he could see that they were not moving. Parked somewhere, in something that looked like a vacant lot of some sort, and he sat upright in alarm, thinking that something horrible had occurred.

Heart racing, he turned to Eduard and asked, roughly, "What's happened?"

Eduard only smiled, and Gilbert's anxiety evaporated when he said, casually, "It's alright! Don't worry. Aren't you hungry? You must be. I'll go get us something to eat. Wait here."

Too sleepy to act and too dumb to respond, Gilbert could only watch as Eduard switched off the ignition and stepped out of the car, leaving Gilbert alone.

The air became chilly without the heater.

...something to eat?

Squinting his eyes, he looked out of the window again, and could see little dots that were people walking to and fro in the distance. He realized that it was not a vacant lot. It was a rest stop, of some kind. They were taking a break.

That _angered _him. There was no _time_. Didn't that damn man understand the urgency of this journey?

'_How could he?_' came a sudden voice in his ear, and he whipped around so hard that his neck hurt, but it was just Ludwig, still sitting in the backseat, looking wide-awake and alert and bright, and he was staring at Gilbert above crossed arms, eyes calm. '_How could he understand, if you won't tell him why you _really _came here? Stop blaming everyone else._'

For a second, Gilbert could only sit frozen, as his head began to ache, caught under Ludwig's intense gaze.

The anger faded.

Ludwig was always right, and of course Eduard didn't understand, because Gilbert would not even tell him why he needed to go to Moscow so badly.

Finally, he managed to grunt, "Yeah, well..."

Ludwig just stared at him.

Reaching up, he scratched irritably at his hair, and when he withdrew his hand, there were specks of dried blood under his fingernails.

Oh, he wanted to go _home_. Couldn't he just take this imaginary Ludwig back with him in lieu of the real one? He was just as beautiful. Just as stern.

Couldn't he?

But when he reached out, daring for the first time to try and _touch _him, his fingers went through Ludwig's arm, like grabbing smoke, and Ludwig just smiled.

He wanted to burst into tears. He couldn't touch this Ludwig. It wasn't the same.

Pulling back, he could only rest his head upon the top of the leather seat and stare back at Ludwig, and ignore the biting cold of the Russian air.

Was Ludwig safe?

Ludwig leaned forward, arms falling down to the seat to balance himself, and he was so close that his nose nearly touched Gilbert's forehead, but he did not dare try to touch him again.

He could not bear the disappointment of feeling just air.

'_It's alright, Gilbert,_' Ludwig said, barely a whisper, his voice so deep that some consonants were lost completely, '_I'll stay with you. Even though you never stayed with me. I'll stay with you now. I'll help you_.'

He could barely meet Ludwig's pale eyes, and felt that horrible rise of shame that he was somehow used to.

Ludwig's loyalty shamed him. The guilt was killing him. He didn't deserve Ludwig.

Never had.

He was going to say as much, but fell still when the door was yanked open and Eduard, dressed in a heavy coat and gloves and his hair covered with snow, came back in and collapsed in his seat with a sigh of satisfaction.

Gilbert could smell food. He had no appetite.

Ludwig was still watching him, smiling encouragingly. Ludwig, who had done so much for him.

It had been Ludwig who had always wanted to stay at his side. It had been Ludwig who had urged him to stay home instead of going out and drinking himself under the table. And even though he had never listened, it had been Ludwig, in the end, who had rubbed his back soothing as he had hung above the toilet, and it had been Ludwig who had pulled him to his feet and helped him to the bed in the depths of intoxication.

It had been Ludwig who had chastised him the next day, as his hangover wore off, like a good brother should.

He didn't deserve Ludwig.

Eduard, oblivious to his internal struggles, suddenly held out a package, brown paper wrapped in twine, full of snacks, no doubt, but he was too lethargic and disheartened to take it.

"Come on," Eduard coaxed, amicably, "When's the last time you ate?"

He couldn't remember.

'_Take it_,' Ludwig demanded sternly from behind, '_How are you going to come find me if you can't even stand up?_'

It was true (Ludwig was _always _right), and he reached out reluctantly and took the package, settling it in his lap as he, and Ludwig too, watched Eduard with an observant eye.

Eduard was young, Ludwig's age maybe, with that easy, friendly air of youthfulness and good-nature that had long since been missing in his home. He seemed about the same height as Gilbert, and just as slim, although Eduard's lithe frame seemed natural, and not the result of stress and under-eating. Healthy, clean, fresh-faced, pale-haired and fair-skinned, bespectacled and almost _too _pleasant, he hardly looked like a rebellious smuggler and law-breaker, a repeat offender of defection. He did not look the part.

He just looked like a little student. One of Ludwig's friends, maybe, if he had ever let Ludwig have any.

Maybe that was why Eduard was so successful, just _because _of his non-threatening appearance.

He watched quietly as Eduard removed his gloves and brushed the snow from his hair, turning the car back on and blasting the heat. He seemed to feel he was being watched, and, without glancing over, he said, calmly, "You don't talk a lot, huh?"

For a minute, Gilbert froze.

Never, _ever _in his life had someone said that he didn't _talk _a lot. Usually, people were begging him to shut up.

...was he so different now? It was strange to hear, and somehow sad. He didn't feel like himself anymore. Depression, no doubt, had taken its toll.

Ha. He never thought someone would ever say that to him.

Finally, he shrugged a shoulder, and averted his eyes down to the food in his lap as Eduard attacked his own with voracity, and after a silence, he grumbled, "What's there to say?"

Eduard paused, chewing a mouthful, and then laughed.

"I'm sure there's plenty," he said, cheerfully, "You're just not tellin' me!"

It was true.

Ludwig was laughing now, too. He missed the sound.

'_Gilbert, you're always so stubborn! You think you can do everything on your own. You'll see. In the end, you'll need someone. I tried to get you to open up to me. Stop pretending. You're only hurting yourself_.'

He shifted under Ludwig's sharp words, and bowed his head, staring without interest at the food below.

He didn't feel like eating.

Eduard noticed, and suddenly said, "I'm not going to drive anymore until you eat it. All of it."

Narrowing his eyes, Gilbert sent prissy little Eduard a half-hearted glare, and heaved a sigh.

What could he do?

The morning sun was rising.

He ate, as was expected of him, and when he was finished (feeling somewhat ill) he shoved the paper in Eduard's hands just to prove that he had, indeed, eaten all of it.

Satisfied, Eduard shifted the gear, pulled his foot off the brake, and they were off again.

Ludwig was on his knees in the backseat, gripping the windowsill and staring out at the passing lands with an almost childish excitement. Gilbert watched him in the side mirror, trying to ignore the ache in his heart.

When he had the real Ludwig back, when they were both back safe and sound in the West, he would buy a car and take Ludwig on a long road trip before he finally handed him off for the last time to waiting Roderich.

Anything to make Ludwig happy.

He leaned back into the seat, as Eduard drove silently, and he closed his eyes and listened as Ludwig observed the Russian landscape, pointing out something every so often and sounding very much enthused.

'_Gilbert, look! We're getting closer. Oh, Gilbert! Can we go see the Kremlin before we leave? I'd like that. The cathedral, too. Since we're going to be together again._'

He only smiled.

He was just remembering Ludwig as a child, probably, who had always been excited to go off and see new things. Why wouldn't Ludwig be excited to see Russia for the first time? It was endearing, to hear such eagerness in Ludwig's deep, rumbling voice.

He hadn't done anything to make Ludwig sound like _that _in so many years.

The road passed.

Eduard glanced at him, but sensed his melancholy and stayed silent.

How much longer before they reached Moscow?

Once in Moscow, how many days—weeks!—before he found there what he sought?

The dread was ever creeping upon him.

They had only driven for two or so hours before they suddenly stopped again, and when Eduard pulled the vehicle into another little stop, he felt his agitation growing. Did they have to stop so frequently?

Eduard seemed supremely unconcerned. Carefree.

The snow was deepening.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked, perhaps petulantly, but Eduard was patient, and seemed unfazed by his harsh voice as he cut the ignition.

The sun was high.

"Afternoons and evenings are the worst times to be on the road," he began, gently. "There are roadblocks every few miles most of the time. It's better to lie low for now. If you had a good fake ID, it would be different. But. Oh well." He saw Gilbert's look, and added, with a laugh, "What, you came all this way just to be caught in a car by some nosy cop?"

Gilbert furrowed his brow, and fell back, crossing his arms irritably.

Inconvenient.

"We'll drive at night and in the mornings, but I don't want to risk anything."

He did not want such delays. He did not want to linger here in Russia any longer than necessary.

Even if Ludwig was having fun sight-seeing.

"And I have to sleep, too, you know," Eduard suddenly tossed out, with a smile, and Gilbert's frustration dulled down into resignation.

Even though he _hated _it, he had to let Eduard do as he pleased, because this was Eduard's car and Eduard's hard work and Eduard's sacrifice, not his, and Eduard was risking his life and freedom just to help him.

He could not protest if Eduard wanted to stop and rest.

Begrudgingly, he crossed his arms and leaned against the window as Eduard pulled his coat tightly around himself, huddling into a little ball. A few moments of silence, and he was out.

Gilbert was left alone with Ludwig, who was leaning forward, resting his arms upon the top of the seat, leering down at Gilbert with a knowing smile that made him suddenly uneasy.

'_Just go back, Gilbert. It'll be better for you. You won't make it._'

The words hurt. Ludwig didn't trust him.

Brave Ludwig, who knew no fear...

He would never go back. Not without Ludwig.

He could only shake his head as Ludwig stared him down, and it was with a weak, quivering voice that he managed to whisper, once he made sure that Eduard was fast asleep, "I won't go back. I won't. I won't give up. Not on you."

He longed to reach out and take Ludwig's pale hand within his own, to confirm his sincerity, but what was the point?

Ludwig was not real. He couldn't touch him.

"I won't give up."

'_You did so many times before._'

Now Gilbert twisted in his seat, and leaned forward too, clenching his hands together as he met Ludwig's icy eyes. He was almost too ashamed to keep the gaze, but did so, barely, and tried to smile.

"But not this time! I won't this time, I swear. It won't be like before, you know. I... I don't drink anymore, I _don't_. Not since last year, I haven't had _any_! It won't be like before."

And, oh God, it was true. He hadn't drank in _so _long. He did not want to disappoint Ludwig anymore.

He hated himself that it had taken such a horrible turn of events for him to realize how much he _loved _Ludwig, and how much he had _hurt _him, but he _had _it now, he really did, and he would not drift back into that old routine.

Never again.

He did not drink anymore.

He wished that he had realized it earlier. It should have been young Ludwig that drank so heavily, as all young men have the right to do, spending all night out at bars and with friends. It should have been Ludwig that came home drunk and staggering.

Not him.

He should have grown out of that phase, as Ludwig no doubt would have had it been reversed, but he never had. Shameful. Thirty years old and acting like a goddamn teenager. He had deprived Ludwig of a childhood.

Ludwig watched him, idly, cool eyes looking him up and down.

Gilbert could not bear it. He needed reassurance.

"Once we're back together," he whispered, fervently, "I'll make it all up to you, I swear I will. I'll do anything you want me to. I'll do anything."

He meant it.

He would do anything to regain Ludwig's trust. Ludwig's respect. Ludwig's adoration.

Anything.

Ludwig only stared at him, with a tilted head of curiosity, like a dog. Calculating his honesty.

Ludwig had no faith in him.

How could Ludwig keep faith in him after years of such drastic ups and downs? How could Ludwig keep faith in him when he would rather have started a fight than just sit still at home?

Fight.

He had fought with Ludwig too many times to count. He hadn't meant it.

Oh, Christ, he hadn't ever _meant _it, those horrible things he sometimes said. He hadn't ever _meant _to hit him in those moments of intoxicated fury—he would never hurt Ludwig intentionally. Not Ludwig.

It had just happened.

The whole thing was his fault, he knew. There was no denying it. He wouldn't even try.

But even so...

Maybe he had hit Ludwig before, but it wasn't like Ludwig hadn't turned around and hit him right back. Harder. Ludwig hit far harder. It wasn't like Ludwig had just sat there and _cried_. It wasn't like that.

Ludwig had hit him back. So it wasn't like Ludwig had ever been scared of him.

Maybe he had hated him, sometimes, and maybe they had spent entire nights just screaming at each other, but Ludwig had never been _afraid _of him. Never. He would have killed himself if he had ever woken up one day to realize that Ludwig was _scared _of him.

Ludwig had never feared him.

If he had...

If he _had_, he would _never _have let Gilbert cling on to him the next day as he fought off his hangover. And he would have never have just sat there and let Gilbert hold him against his chest and bury his face in his hair. He wouldn't have lied there on the couch, either, smiling as they apologized for their various trespasses and giggled over each others bruises.

Ludwig wasn't afraid of him. It wasn't like that.

Ludwig knew that it had never been malicious.

...didn't he?

Glancing over to make sure that Eduard was still asleep, he leaned forward, and whispered, longingly, "Oh, God, I _swear _Ludwig, once I get you back I won't _ever _lose you again. I swear. I'll do anything. Anything you want me to do, I'll do it. I'll do all that stuff you wanted me to. I'll go back to the doctor. I'll get pills, I'll go talk to the fuckin' therapist, I'll stay _home_. I'll do anything you want. I swear."

He could not stand Ludwig's silent stare.

Couldn't Ludwig understand that it would be different this time?

He would act his age. He would play the role of big brother. He would assume the responsibilities he had always neglected.

"Don't you believe me?"

Silence, and then, finally, Ludwig smiled.

'_Sure, Gilbert_,' he said, but despite his smile and his confirmation, there was something in his voice, something under the surface of calm, that made his heart sink.

Skepticism. Ludwig was just humoring him.

He wanted to cry.

But instead, he huddled up like Eduard had, and tried to sleep.

He suddenly didn't want to be awake anymore.

Snow drifted down.

Time passed peacefully.

The high sun faded down into the horizon, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep as Ludwig hummed to himself in the backseat, and finally, as the fierce winds picked up outside, Eduard finally woke up with a shiver.

The air was colder than ever.

Night was near.

For a bleary second, Eduard only looked back and forth, lethargically, and then stretched out with a deep groan, taking his glasses up from the dashboard and putting them on as he stifled a yawn.

Gilbert, just as lethargic, leaned his head against the window and waited for the car to start moving again.

The sooner this whole thing was over, the better.

His threshold was growing near.

Moments of settling in and a cup of coffee later, Eduard was ready to go, and as the snow fell all around them, grey against the night sky, he finally struck up conversation again.

He could see, perhaps, Gilbert's desperation.

"You know," he began, "sometimes talking to someone can make things a lot easier."

Gilbert grunted an incomprehensible reply, but Eduard was undeterred.

"You've obviously got a lot on your mind. We might be stuck together for a while, you know, so why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Hesitation.

Ludwig was quiet in the back.

Asleep, maybe.

He _wanted _to talk to someone, God knew he did, but he could not bear to relive such shame. To admit to someone his horrible failure...

He only stared out of the window at the drifting snow, and Eduard's voice was steadily lowering from cheerfulness into something almost like disappointment as he said, "Look at you. You came here for something, so bad that you went through all that, and you still won't ask for help. Where do you expect to get like that?"

For a moment, Gilbert started up, brow low and eyes wide, because it sounded just like Ludwig all over again, chastising him for being so stubborn.

He disappointed everyone.

Alfred. Roderich. Erzsébet.

Ludwig.

Now he was already disappointing Eduard, a man he did not even know.

It was too much.

That was why he opened his mouth, then, and told Eduard as much as he was willing to.

With neat alterations, of course, and he completely omitted the Russian from the story, for fear of a backlash. Instead, he created a half-true story of how his own stupidity had brought something horrible upon his little brother, and that that horrible something had brought his brother out here somewhere in Moscow, and that was why he was out here now, to find him.

Eduard only listened, and did not pry, and from the look on his face, he probably didn't _want _to know what that horrible something _was_.

A short silence, and then Eduard shifted his weight, awkwardly, and said, in a very thin voice, "Brother, huh? Brothers are supposed to protect each other."

Gilbert could only nod, and somehow Eduard's previous words seemed to turn against him, and maybe it was Eduard, in truth, who had a horrible something that he had been neglecting to talk about.

Gilbert could see it.

He was struggling with something. Finally, he found his voice, and spoke.

Gilbert returned the favor, and listened.

The dark roads passed.

"You know," he began, and something in his voice had changed. A dark, almost dreary kind of _longing_, or maybe it was regret, as he said, lowly, "I had someone who was kind of like a brother to me once. I'd always wanted a brother, and I thought I would have done anything to keep him safe. Like you, you know? He did everything he could to help _me_, and I swore to myself that I wouldn't ever leave him alone. We were supposed to protect each other."

Gilbert shifted, uncomfortably, as Eduard's eyes became as dark as his voice and Ludwig took up whispering in his ear, and after a terrible silence, he managed to ask, weakly, "What happened to him?"

Silence.

Ludwig's voice was deep and smooth. Calm.

Eduard shook his head, and then heaved a great sigh, and there was something _awful _and heavy upon his shoulders, Gilbert could _see _it, even if he could not imagine what it was, and finally Eduard said, "I don't know. Something happened one night. He needed me, and I... I got scared. I ran away. I could have helped, but I left him behind. I haven't seen him since. That was... God, four years ago. I don't even know if he's still alive or not. We promised that we'd take care of each other. That we'd look out for each other. I promised him that I wouldn't leave him alone. He looked out for _me_! But I let him down. I ran away. I left him alone. And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't _hate _myself for it."

Hate.

Maybe he and Eduard understood each other more than he had first imagined.

Because, God, he hated himself too.

"And that's why you smuggle people across the borders," he said, without thinking, and Eduard looked up at him, glasses glinting eerily in the dim glow of the interior lights.

The snow fell.

A dry laugh.

"Yeah. That's why."

To assuage a guilty conscience. Eduard had let someone down, and so he tried to redeem himself by helping others in need. That was why he was in this car now, driving a man he did not know all the way into the heart of the USSR.

To make up for it.

"It's not gonna make it any better," he added, sternly, and after a short, thick silence, Eduard snorted.

"No. It won't. I realized that a long time ago." He shook his head, mostly to himself, and followed up with, "But I still do it anyway. If I didn't help people now, I'd just..."

"Go crazy?" Gilbert offered, and Eduard nodded.

"If you want me to hang around and help you... I would. If you asked, I would."

"...thanks."

He was glad for it.

Falling silent, their words exhausted, Eduard just drove, and Gilbert tried to sleep.

Ludwig's voice in his ear made it easy.

'_Gilbert, don't give up. We were supposed to be together. Remember? You promised. Don't give up on me_.'

Never.

Never.

He was on his way. He would not fail.

_Together_.

Not again.

* * *

><p>It wasn't <em>his <em>problem.

The atmosphere was shifting. Something was changing here.

He could sense it.

It just didn't feel the same as it had before, and Ivan's mood was _so _good that it was alarming at best, and absolutely terrifying at worst. It wasn't the same, and now when he passed Ivan in the halls, walking so confidently as he always did, arms behind his back and chin held high, there was a strange look upon his face, and sometimes Ivan even _smiled _at him, knowingly and obviously quite happily.

Something was changing.

Toris could _feel _it.

And he had no doubt that it was because of Ludwig.

Ivan was in such a good mood because Ludwig was here.

Ivan was pleased with Ludwig.

Ivan was expecting something _more _from Ludwig.

But _what_, exactly, he could not yet say.

In all honesty, he really didn't want to know, and he told himself repeatedly (even though it wasn't _really _true—not that he would ever admit it, even to himself) that he didn't even _care_.

Why should _he _care what happened to Ludwig?

Ha...

Ludwig wasn't his concern.

Ludwig was Ivan's project. Ludwig was Ivan's responsibility. Ludwig was Ivan's self-appointed burden.

Not his.

Ludwig wasn't _his _concern.

And so he convinced himself, every second of every day, that even though he found Ludwig to his liking, that even though he admired Ludwig's bravery, that even though he was sympathetic to the horrible situation that Ludwig had found himself thrust into, it just wasn't his problem.

He was not obligated to look out for Ludwig.

He had looked out for people in the past.

And he had been let down.

Over and over.

He was only human; how much disappointment was he expected to take?

He was tired of exhausting himself for others and getting nothing in return.

Ludwig was not his concern.

It was as simple as that.

It was simple.

So, _God_, why did it make his heart ache so to be around him?

When Ludwig came after him in the halls, following behind him or walking at his side, trying to strike up conversation that he did not want to engage in, or when Ludwig sat with them at the table, sending him amicable looks and being generally good-natured as he tried to avert his eyes.

When Ludwig acted like they were _friends_, when he had done nothing to give Ludwig such an impression.

He liked Ludwig. That was why it was better to keep distant from him. Nothing good would come from being friends with Ludwig.

Friends. There were no such thing as _friends_. Not really. Ivan had never let him forget that.

_Who would ever want to be friends with you?_

It didn't matter.

In the end, Ludwig would probably betray him somehow, too. He had already betrayed Ludwig.

He tried not to think of that now, as he stood in a bare room that he wanted to furnish, and it was with far too much effort that he tried to keep his mind on paint colors and carpet texture and flattering paintings rather than Ludwig.

It was easier to stay distant from him. It wouldn't hurt that way.

Ludwig just didn't seem to _understand_.

"What are you doing?"

A deep whisper behind him, so low that he almost did not hear it, and when he looked over his shoulder, there was Ludwig, like always, standing in the doorframe and watching him with those pale eyes, and he shifted his weight.

Ludwig, who always sought him out, longing for a friend, no doubt, in this new world.

It wasn't Ludwig's fault. Ludwig just wanted reassurance and companionship.

It shouldn't have been so hard to give him what he wanted, and God knew that it wasn't _fair_, but every time he saw Ludwig he could not completely push away that little twinge of resentment in his chest.

And he wondered to himself, bitterly, why Ludwig wanted to come after _him _when Ivan was obviously so goddamn eager to have him around and coddle him every five minutes and compliment him and embrace him and tell him everything he wanted to hear.

Ludwig could get reassurance and companionship from Ivan.

Let Ivan keep his friendship.

"Toris?"

Ludwig was watching him expectantly from where he stood, maybe a bit apprehensively, and Toris could see from the bracing of his feet that he was preparing for a clipped, bristling response.

...was he so harsh with Ludwig?

It wasn't Ludwig's fault.

The resentment faded into something like guilt—yet another reason he strove to avoid Ludwig, because feeling bad was not pleasant—and finally, he shrugged a shoulder, and muttered, "Daydreaming."

Ludwig smiled, in relief, and his look clearly said, 'Oh, good, I got him in a _good _mood!'

His guilt intensified.

He did not mean to take out his frustrations on Ludwig, and he remembered with embarrassment saying something along that line to Ludwig the other night in a drunken haze.

He remembered now why he didn't drink. The pain of the hangover was no match for the humiliation of a loose tongue.

He fell still, and Ludwig seemed perfectly content to just sit there and stare at him, and finally he heaved a sigh and brushed past him, retreating into the halls and hoping that he could lose Ludwig in the maze of the twists and turns.

An impossibility, however, because Ludwig's long legs outpaced him, and Ludwig's sharp, hawkish eyes would not miss a move he made, and he kept right at Toris' side, hands tucked in his pockets and observing his surroundings quietly.

Toris was stuck with him.

Again.

They walked in silence, because Toris had nothing to say (nothing nice, anyhow) and Ludwig seemed strangely thoughtful, his feet sure and steady and never faltering.

He was calm. Subdued.

Toris could only imagine what had happened the other night, when Ivan had dragged Ludwig out of the safety of the fire-lit room and pulled him upstairs to give him _his _idea of a Christmas gift.

No doubt Ludwig had seen his brand new papers, and that was why he walked so surely now, because Ivan had given him a new life and a new name and now he was _someone _here.

Identity was no doubt a confidence booster.

Colonel Müller.

Ha. The thought made him feel ill.

Damn Ludwig.

Colonel? Colonel. He had worked _so _hard to impress Ivan, he had done so many things to get up to lieutenant (of course it was fake, but it was the _principle _of the matter!) and yet somehow Ludwig came along and took up a higher rank without even trying.

It burned him.

It wasn't Ludwig's _fault_, but that didn't mean that it stung any less to see Ivan fawning over him every chance he got. Going through so much trouble just to make sure that Ludwig would never leave the snows of Siberia.

It had just been a spur of the moment thing. Ivan had wanted Ludwig because he was handsome and bold. It had just been the whim of a bored Ivan. How could Toris have predicted that Ludwig would suddenly become so goddamn important?

Who could have imagined that Ivan would have taken to him like he had? He had expected (and maybe Ivan had too) at best a few months of amusement from troublesome Ludwig before Ivan finally grew bored again.

It had just been a game. Maybe Ivan had won more than he had bargained for.

Ivan was taken with Ludwig.

How had this happened?

Toris could suddenly _hear _Ivan's voice in his head, and it was with a horrible burn of envy that he recalled Ivan saying dreamily to him, as Ludwig had been bleeding all over the floor up in _that room _on the eight day, 'Isn't he great? Look, twice as long as you now! Who would have thought a damn _German _could be so great? What a fuckin' relief—God knows I didn't want another _you _here.'

Another _you_.

Like he was a waste of space. Like he was a great disappointment. Like he had somehow become a burden; an unwelcome guest that had long overstayed his welcome.

As if he had _asked _to come here!

Another _you_. Ivan's great miscalculation. He was nothing of particular importance to Ivan.

Just an amusement, maybe, a pencil-pushing punching bag whose only usefulness was to complete the papers that bored Ivan and to drive the car wherever Ivan wanted to go and to translate into Lithuanian and Czech when it was necessary (but not German—not anymore). Whose only purpose here was to come running when Ivan called and to stand silent and still as Ivan crushed the world beneath his boots and to be available whenever Ivan needed something done. Whose only talent was in being mindlessly obedient and unquestioning, willing to do horrible things, to commit horrible betrayals, just because Ivan said to do so.

To be there to accept Ivan's very physical frustration when something did not go his way.

Ivan tolerated his presence here. But Ivan did not like him.

Ivan had dressed him up and taught him to operate within a military world. But Ivan did not respect him.

Ivan had given him a gun and a rank and taught him to survive Siberia. But Ivan did not admire him.

Ivan _trusted _him, even with his life, to do everything he said, and gave him reasonable freedom to come and go in this frozen land as he pleased. But Ivan did not _care _about him.

Not like Ludwig.

Thinking about it made his head hurt.

Why? Just because Ludwig was brave, and he was not? Was there such a difference between them?

As they walked, he spared a quick glance at Ludwig from the corner of his eye, observing his counterpart's appearance with a furrowed brow.

...counterpart? Maybe his competitor.

Ludwig walked loosely and almost silently, looking straight ahead with an unwavering gaze, pale as snow and hair loose and eyes tired. The cuts on his hands were finally starting to heal, and from the smooth gait, his feet must have been healing too. He was lither now than he had been, almost too thin, but that was expected from his numerous encounters with such dangerous circumstances, and if Irina had her way—and she would—that would not last for long.

He was wearing one of Ivan's shirts. He looked different.

Ludwig felt him staring, and looked over.

When their eyes locked, suddenly his feelings of bitterness were gone, as it struck him how _strange _Ludwig's eyes were.

Almost unreadable. Like trying to look through a thick fog.

It had been easy to read Ludwig before. Fear and hopelessness had been immediately obvious. He could tell what had been going on in Ludwig's mind. He could _always _tell what Ludwig was feeling.

But not anymore.

Fog.

He couldn't tell what Ludwig was thinking now, assuming, of course, that he _was_. Maybe Ludwig didn't think anymore. Maybe Ivan did all the thinking for him now.

_Oh_. That thought hurt.

Ludwig looked so _different_. This wasn't the same bold Ludwig that had taken a swing at him and knocked him unconscious on the train. Or even the same fiery Ludwig that had been so angry at him for ruining his run in Lensk.

This Ludwig just looked eerily tranquil, and almost unresponsive. A ghost, wandering through the mists of Siberia.

His shoulders were low and slumped, and Toris could only imagine that Ivan's heavy hands were upon them, even when he wasn't present.

Hell, he didn't imagine—he _knew_. Because that was how he felt, too, wasn't it?

Ivan was _always _there, even when he was gone.

Ivan wasn't a man. Ivan was God, maybe. Impervious and infallible and always _knowing_.

Always _seeing_.

Toris couldn't even remember the last time he had had a thought cross his mind without wondering if Ivan would approve of him having that thought in the first place.

Ivan was God.

He shouldn't have resented Ludwig. He and Ludwig weren't different at all.

Maybe they had been, before, and Ludwig had been _so _brave.

They were just the same now.

And he had only been fooling himself, because Ludwig had _always _been his concern.

_I'll leave you in Toris' care, for now._

Ivan had put Ludwig under his care. He was supposed to watch over Ludwig. He was supposed to make sure that _this _didn't happen.

It had.

He had failed.

Ivan wanted something more from Ludwig.

"Are you feeling alright, Toris?" suddenly came Ludwig's whisper, and it struck him too that Ludwig's voice was strangely smooth and almost silvery. Not the scratchy rumble that he was used to.

Maybe Ivan had started speaking for Ludwig too.

The thought made him shudder, and he could only reply, weakly, "Sure. Are you?"

A silence, and then Ludwig smiled again, serenely.

"Sure."

And the scary part was that Ludwig really meant it.

Ludwig was fine. Just fine. Accepting.

Ivan wanted something more from Ludwig. Ivan could _see _something there in Ludwig. Something that Toris could see, too, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Ludwig was just like him _now_, sure, but there was _something _underneath Ludwig's frightening tranquility. Something stirring, like the slow moving of river water beneath the thick sheet of ice.

That was why Ivan had been in such a good mood lately, because maybe Ivan had finally found someone that could endure his madness.

Maybe even match it, in the right circumstances.

They were the same now, he and Ludwig, but Ivan seemed confident that Ludwig could move forward.

Rise above.

It was a strange notion, one that he couldn't really understand or comprehend, because he had never been able to overcome the mists and see above them.

He couldn't understand Ivan's mind. Maybe Ludwig could.

Kindhearted, gentle, brave Ludwig...

It had just been a _game_. Who could have known? Maybe he should just go ahead and start standing up straight and saluting every time he saw Ludwig and say, 'Good morning, colonel!'

It might turn out that way, in the end.

That same loyalty to his brother and burning resolve that had made Ludwig such a challenge had suddenly been turned around, and there was no doubt in his mind that Ivan was very close to harnessing that loyalty and that resolve and directing it towards himself.

And from there...

Toris could not imagine.

It would be better to distance himself from Ludwig. No good would come from being friends with him. Maybe it was even dangerous.

He would not stand here and proclaim so foolishly that he knew _everything _about Ludwig, but he knew more than he would ever admit to, and he knew almost more than he wanted to. How could he not? That had been one of his rare useful moments, hadn't it? To obey Ivan's order and make those phone calls and wire that money and send out those men and to monitor that street, to learn _everything_.

To betray Ludwig.

He had so many folders full of papers from Berlin that it was almost overwhelming. Papers he had had no business seeing. Yet he had sat there and studied them nonetheless, and relayed everything dutifully to Ivan.

He knew everything about Ludwig, and the foolish Gilbert, everything that could ever have been hoped to learn.

Doctor records, school records, police reports, housing forms. Hell, he even had financial records. He had access to Gilbert's (empty) bank account. He had access to the few records that Ludwig actually had.

He could have told Ivan, had Ivan asked, what bars Gilbert frequented and what shops Ludwig liked and who Gilbert bought his pills from and even how often Ludwig spoke to the Austrian ambassador on the phone. He could have told Ivan what size shoe Gilbert wore and the name of the man who cut Ludwig's hair every other weekend.

He knew everything.

And so he knew, and of course that meant that Ivan knew too, that Ludwig's life with his brother had been shaky, to say the least, and yet Ludwig had somehow remained unwaveringly loyal to Gilbert, to the point of sacrificing himself. For a man who had a police record so long that it had taken Toris an _hour _just to flip through all the pages. For a man whose court-appointed therapist had labeled him '_dangerously mentally defective, no clear sense of right and wrong as pertains to himself, reckless, highly aggressive, impulsive and brash; a threat to himself and others'_.

Yet Ludwig would have done anything for him.

So how loyal would Ludwig become to Ivan, who was even _more _mentally defective but who could also offer a more stable—ha, that word!—home environment?

Ludwig's mind was not completely sound, either.

He knew too that that same court therapist had been greatly concerned about Ludwig's seeming acceptance and placidity towards Gilbert's volatile nature. He would never forget the words written on that paper : '_Seems to have a what-can-I-do? attitude. In denial. Accepts abnormal relationship despite warning signs. Self-blames easily. Seems to believe that dangerous relationship is better than none at all. Possible abandonment issues. Blurred sense of identity. Detached initially, then latches strongly to others. Susceptible to manipulation. Psychologist __highly__ recommended_.'

Good-natured Ludwig, whose mysterious and lonely childhood had left him with attachment issues so severe that he would go to hell and back for someone like Gilbert.

So what would he do for someone like Ivan? Oh, that awful look of triumph on Ivan's face when he had read those notes...

He had betrayed Ludwig. It was better to distance himself from Ludwig.

It wouldn't hurt so much that way.

To see Ludwig standing here, so pale and passive and to know that _he _was partly responsible for extinguishing that fire, was too much. Too much.

He could not bear it. He hadn't wanted this to happen. He hadn't wanted Ludwig to become like _this_.

Not like this.

Like _him_.

Trying to cover up his self-hatred, like he always did, he finally stopped in his tracks and said, snappily, "Why are you following me? Shouldn't you be with Ivan? Don't you have anything better to do? Leave me alone for once, won't you?"

He didn't mean it.

A passing of hurt through Ludwig's pale eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, hidden behind the mists, and Ludwig only stared at him, and shrugged a shoulder, calmly.

It occurred to him, and that little bit of hurt had proved it, that Ludwig was still _there_.

Ludwig, the real Ludwig, was still there, even if he was less visible than before. But he was still there, _somewhere_.

It was almost comforting, and yet somehow depressing.

It was only a matter of time before _that _Ludwig was gone completely, before he forgot himself under Ivan's smooth words.

Forgetting was so easy out here, and sometimes, when his mind wandered, Toris would start upright and realize that he didn't even remember his parents' names. He couldn't remember the look of his home. He couldn't remember the smell of the grass or the feel of the wind. Sometimes, he couldn't even picture _his _face.

He had forgotten. How could he have _forgotten_?

He couldn't remember.

Maybe Ludwig was starting to forget things too.

"If I'm bothering you," Ludwig said, gently, "I apologize. I just didn't want to be alone."

Alone. Who wanted to be alone?

"Where's Ivan?" he managed to ask, and the smile on Ludwig's face made his heart hurt.

"Out in town with Irina. He should be back soon, but I thought we could do something together for now."

A hopeful suggestion.

Ludwig. Poor Ludwig.

Oh, he could not bear this shame.

"What's there to do?" he snipped, and tried to stalk off, feeling his tail firmly between his legs, but Ludwig just kept _following _him. "Why don't you go bother the cat instead? I'm sure it won't mind being around you all the time. So stop following me. I'm not in the mood to talk to you." Ludwig was on his heels. He couldn't stand it. "Leave me _alone_! Go sit up in bed and wait for Ivan to come back and hold your hand. I'm surprised you even managed to open the door without him telling you how to."

He didn't _mean _it.

Like _he _could do something without Ivan telling him to. Hypocrite. But he aimed to wound because, God, he'd rather that Ludwig punched him in the face again than just brush off his words so easily.

He was a coward.

Maybe Ludwig had a reply, but if so, then it was cut off by another voice before it had been formed.

A hiss in Russian.

"Such bold words from a man who once fell to his knees and grabbed me by the legs, crying for nearly an hour just so that I would remove the lock from his bedroom door. Because he couldn't _sleep_."

A horrible rush of warmth on his cheeks, and he felt himself go rigid in that mechanical reaction that he had no control over as Ivan was suddenly before them, materializing as though from thin air from the door of his office (which Toris had not realized he was passing), hair windswept and looking somewhat hassled; Irina was to blame, no doubt.

His eyes were scorching as he stared, and Toris was glad that Ludwig had not understood the words, because it would have shamed him nearly to the point of collapse.

He couldn't move.

Ivan's presence was overwhelming. Beside of him, he could see that Ludwig's stance shifted too, but much differently.

When Ivan was around, Toris tensed up so terribly that he found it difficult to recover his reflexes, and sometimes his muscles clenched and he was stuck in helpless immobility, like a deer in headlights. It was automatic; he could not stop it from happening.

Ludwig had developed an automatic reaction as well.

But instead of rigid fear, he seemed to fall loose. Where Toris' muscles contracted, his relaxed. His shoulders dropped all the lower, his arms fell limp at his sides, and his head dropped, just a bit. Almost unnoticeable, barely perceptible, but Toris saw it.

A stance of passivity. Subconscious submission. Ludwig probably didn't even realize it had happened. He probably didn't realize that he was smiling, either.

Finally, mercifully, Ivan released Toris from his relentless gaze, turning his pale eyes to Ludwig, who seemed to appreciate the stare more than he feared it.

Then again, it wouldn't be so bad to be under Ivan's gaze if he looked at _him _like _that_.

Tranquilly. Adoringly. With fondness rather than annoyance.

...damn, there was that resentment again.

Sure, it was _easy _for Ludwig. Ivan prized Ludwig. It wouldn't be so bad if Ivan could look at him like that.

A step on the tile, and Ivan came forward out of the doorframe, placing a gloved palm against Ludwig's pale cheek and transitioning smoothly from Russian to always improving German as he murmured, reassuringly, "Don't bother with him, Ludwig. I promise I'll take you along next time so you won't have to suffer being around _Toris_."

A pang of hurt, and even though he had said and thought _horrible _things about Ludwig, some part of him hoped that Ludwig would shake his head and say, 'I don't mind being around Toris!' because he _needed _to hear words like that.

Kind words.

But Ludwig just stood there, smiling weakly, and didn't say a thing.

Not a thing.

He should have expected as much. He had done nothing to earn such a defense, anyhow. Terrible coward that he was.

Ivan's thumb ran across Ludwig's high cheek bone, and Toris made a point of averting his eyes, reluctant to see _that _look upon Ivan's face.

It shouldn't have hurt as much it did.

How long had _he _been here? He had done everything Ivan had wanted him to.

And yet, despite his years of loyal servitude, all he ever heard _now _was...

"Come in here, Ludwig, I have something I want you to do for me."

Ludwig.

Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig.

That was all that seemed to come out of Ivan's mouth now. It was making him crazy.

Ludwig.

Sometimes, he just wanted to reach up and cover his ears and moan, 'Will you just shut the fuck _up _about _Ludwig_?'

Ludwig.

Ludwig.

_Lyudovik_.

Oh, he _hated _the eerie way Ivan crooned Ludwig's name.

The sound of it was unnerving. Wrong.

But he was sure that Ludwig had no problem being the center of attention, as he allowed Ivan to take his hand and lead him into the office, a place he had never been, at least not to Toris' knowledge, and he was probably _happy _about it, absolutely clueless of how _unfair _it was.

Let them be together. Let Ludwig do Ivan's bidding. He had no intention of following them now.

Ivan was smiling.

Something for Ludwig to do? He didn't want to know.

Shuddering, he turned on his heel and made to escape.

He was unsuccessful.

"Ah, ah, _ah_," came the high-pitched chirp from behind, and he froze in his tracks, a horrible lurch of fear forcing him to wrench his head back and look over his shoulder.

Ivan was watching him, expectantly.

Amusedly.

"You too."

Without hesitation, he returned stiffly to the door, heart racing and head pounding as he followed Ludwig into the office, even though he dreaded it.

Why couldn't he just go? He didn't care what Ivan had in store for Ludwig. He wanted to _go_. Ludwig was not in immediate peril, not when Ivan adored him so, so he wouldn't have felt guilty leaving him alone.

Why did he have to be present?

The office had not been an occupied place lately, not since Ludwig had been here, and Ivan had been content to let it sit there unused in favor of clutching Ludwig up against him in every corner of the house and saddling Toris with the majority of paperwork.

Giant maps covered the walls—Ivan _loved _maps, he couldn't ever take his eyes off them (Toris suspected he was only dreaming about when all that land would be _his_)—and stacks of folders were strewn about everywhere, papers falling out of drawers and little notes thumb-tacked to every available space.

Organized chaos, because despite the clutter, Ivan could make a beeline for a certain document and pluck it out of nowhere when need be.

How, exactly, Toris could not say.

Maybe Ivan's memory was razor-sharp and photographic. Ivan remembered _everything_.

The click of the door behind him, and Toris shifted his weight anxiously as Ivan brushed past him and settled himself down at the desk, upon which there was another map. Ivan set his fingers upon it, and turned his gaze over to Ludwig, who stood still and silent in the corner, and his smile became a leer.

Toris had a horrible suspicion. An uncomfortable squirm in his stomach.

"Come here," Ivan suddenly beckoned, and his voice was high and cheerful over the silence, and Toris could only watch as Ludwig obeyed, taking a step forward and coming to the end of the desk.

Not close enough for Ivan, obviously.

Ludwig fell still, and seemed almost reluctant to approach any farther.

"It's alright, come here," Ivan repeated, in that silky tone of voice that could have tricked the Devil himself, and Ludwig finally came closer, coming to a stop when he was hovering at Ivan's side.

A glance upwards, and Ludwig's bright eyes had suddenly locked into his own, as though mentally pleading with Toris to somehow take away his anxiety.

How could he? He was sick with anxiety himself.

He could not help Ludwig.

Forsaking Ludwig yet again, now too many times to count, he dropped his head, and stared blankly at the desk.

He couldn't help Ludwig. It was safer for both of them if he stayed quiet.

Ivan would have his way, in the end. No point in fighting it.

"Come over here," Ivan coaxed and reached out his hand, grabbing up Ludwig's sleeve and pulling him around until he was all but on top of him, and Toris could hear the eagerness in Ivan's voice as he added, "Here, look, I want to show you something. It's alright. Let's call it a game!"

A game.

Ivan's games were never fun. Sometimes, losing Ivan's games resulted in sudden death. And sometimes _winning _Ivan's games resulted in sudden death.

He knew what game Ivan was going to play with Ludwig. He had played it himself.

Ludwig, unknowing, just stared down as Ivan took up a marker and drew three great black circles upon the map.

He spared himself a glance, and could see Ludwig's pulse racing in his pale neck, even though he seemed to be trying very hard to keep his face impassive.

Trying to be brave.

Poor Ludwig, doomed to live in this world of constant apprehension. To live feeling nothing but nervousness and unease.

Toris could only watch. He could not help.

His scribbles complete, Ivan set the marker aside and reached out, grabbing hapless Ludwig by his belt and tugging him down, down, until he was settled neatly on Ivan's lap, back to Ivan's chest, and suddenly Ludwig was so pale that Toris would not have been particularly surprised if he just fainted right there. Toris wouldn't have blamed him, either, as Ivan's hands gripped his waist in an inescapable vice.

Ivan stared at him intensely from above Ludwig's shoulder, unblinking lavender eyes on fire.

He could not bear it, and looked away.

He could see Ludwig squirming uneasily.

Ivan reached up and placed a hand above the map.

"Here, look, Ludwig. Look."

Ludwig did.

Silence, as Ludwig stared down at the map with a tilted head of confusion.

He could still feel Ivan's eyes upon him.

Oh, _why _did he have to watch this?

"What am I looking at?" Ludwig finally asked, deep voice barely audible for its weakness, and Ivan leaned forward, resting his chin heavily upon Ludwig's shoulder.

Let the game begin.

Toris did not want to watch. Somehow, he couldn't help it.

He raised his eyes, to see Ivan taking Ludwig's hand within his own and forcing it above each of those circles in turn.

"See these? Three rebel groups have come to our attention. Hardly a threat. But an annoyance. I've been asked to deal with these annoyances. See them? One in Kiev. One in Sofia. One in Odessa."

Toris was squirming now more than Ludwig.

Ludwig opened his mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out, and finally he shook his head, and shrugged a shoulder, and it was obvious that he was helplessly confused.

And why shouldn't he be? Ludwig was not military.

He didn't know anything about these matters. He finally said as much, when he whispered, "I don't understand."

The words Ivan was waiting for.

"I want you to impress me, Ludwig. These groups are going to be taken care of, sooner or later. I prefer later, myself, I feel I'm too important to be dealing with little students throwing Molotov cocktails, but—ah, what can I do? These little things bore me, but this will be good practice for you, won't it?"

Ludwig went even paler, if possible.

"For me?"

Toris felt sick.

Poor Ludwig.

Ivan was excited now, as he brought Ludwig's finger above the dot that symbolized Moscow.

"This should be easy for you, right? You're so smart! Look. I have five thousand men at my disposal in Moscow. Armed and ready to go. More than enough to take care of these problems. I've been given extra tanks, and I plan on using every single one of them. Have you ever seen a tank, Ludwig? You'd like them. I love them! I admit I've been biding my time a bit on this, but it's just so boring to me. But, like I said, this is how you learn, right? You can handle students, can't you? Come on, tell me—which one should we hit first? Choose. Make me out a plan. Tell me where to send the tanks. Tell me how many men. They're hiding out in such little towns! Easy to flush out. Towns can be burned. Come on. Impress me. Here."

Ivan forced the marker inside of Ludwig's hand, and Toris felt his heart sink down into his stomach at the terrible look on Ludwig's face as he sat there, frozen.

Something like horror. Helplessness.

Toris could see the sheen of cold sweat that had broken out above his brow. He suddenly looked as though he were seconds away from bursting into tears.

This was the real Ludwig.

Ludwig, who had been raised by an ambassador and who had had the intention of _helping _people. Ludwig had wanted to help people. Not send death upon them.

"Come on."

And he remembered, as though it were yesterday, the first time that Ivan had taken up _his _hand and placed it upon that map, and forced him to choose who would die first.

Ludwig only sat there, stuck on Ivan's lap and staring down at the map with wide eyes, and Toris could see the struggle within him, as self-preservation battled with morality.

Ivan had given Ludwig an order. Orders could not be disobeyed.

Ludwig still had a conscience. Consciences could not be disobeyed, either.

Silence.

Toris wondered, deliriously, if Ludwig, had he been able to see into the future, would still have taken his brother's place if he knew it would mean having blood on his hands.

Who could say?

Finally, Ludwig shook his head, once. Wordless refute.

Ivan did not explode, not like he would have if _Toris _ever shook his head, and his confidence never faltered as he pulled a sheet of paper out of one of those numerous folders, and set it down before the desk, forcing Ludwig's hand over until the tip of the marker touched the parchment.

"Everyone dies, Ludwig," he whispered, so quietly that Toris could barely hear, "It's just a matter of how. People kill. It's just war. National security. There's no wrong in it. Come on, it's not so hard! Take your time! It's so easy. Come on, it's just a game. How are we going to take care of this?"

We.

Ivan was making it painfully obvious to Ludwig, probably already so mixed up that he didn't know up from down, that these looming massacres would be the result of _his _decisions.

"Which one? Huh? Which one do you want to take out first? Maybe this one. Or this one. What do you think? Have you ever seen a town burn? Ha, it goes up so fast, you wouldn't even believe. You'll see. But, hey, we don't take any prisoners, you know. I don't have time for that. Think about it. Come on, figure it out. You're smart. Think."

Ludwig bowed his head, and squinted his eyes shut.

He was shaking.

Toris could not help.

Oh God. He couldn't watch this. He couldn't.

Unsuspecting little towns, that just happened to be harboring (probably unknowingly) student rebels, unorganized and underpowered and no match for the military should they ever show up in full force. Students, dreaming about overthrowing the iron fist government while they struggled to finish their homework on time.

No match.

Ivan was asking Ludwig to sign their death warrants.

A game. Ivan's _favorite _game. Torture by proxy.

It was bad enough to have the threat of harm constantly above your head, but to know that you were doing it to other people...

To know that you had sacrificed someone else so that _you _would be spared...

To know that you had given the order that had taken a life...

It was _worse_.

This was Ivan's favorite game.

Turning unwitting men into murderers.

Ludwig was not like Ivan.

Neither was _he_, and yet that had not stopped him from reaching up a trembling hand so long ago and pointing out the little town that he had chosen to sacrifice for Ivan's amusement.

How could he ever hold it against Ludwig if he did the same now?

Ludwig looked up suddenly, and caught his gaze.

Toris could _hear _him pleading for help.

Help.

That he didn't _want _to do this, that he wasn't military, that he wasn't a _murderer_, that this was _not _who he was, that this was not what he had been meant for, that this was not his fate—

What could he do?

It would be better for Ludwig just to get it over with.

The first time hurt like hell. The second time stung a bit. The third time was a little easier.

And after you had done it so many times...

After a while you just didn't feel anything at all.

Ludwig wouldn't be so upset the next time. It was better to get it over with.

Finally, Toris could only nod his head, trying to say, 'Just do it.'

Ludwig's shoulders slumped and his face fell. Toris hated himself for it. Maybe Ludwig would understand one day that everything he had ever done was only for Ludwig's own good.

Poor, poor Ludwig, who had been brought up under Edelstein, with the pledge that he would uphold the Geneva Convention and _Habeas Corpus _and always put human rights before all else.

Ivan's grip upon Ludwig was unyielding, and his smooth voice was near Ludwig's ear.

"Impress me, Ludwig. I know you can do it. You can do anything. Just think about it. Don't rush yourself. It's easy."

Toris shifted, as Ludwig's hands began to tremble.

He expected Ludwig to start crying, or maybe even to faint.

The first time was almost impossible.

The Geneva Convention? _Habeas Corpus_? Human rights? Just made-up words out here. Ivan did not abide by those.

He didn't expect very much, and Ludwig would probably be unable to complete this awful game, tossing his pen down and burying his face in his hands.

He didn't expect much.

Ivan's smile was unshakeable, and he pressed his lips into Ludwig's ear, whispering something that Toris could not make out.

Croons of admiration, no doubt.

Ludwig would fold.

The first time was the worst.

_Why are you crying about it? It's easy! Come on, it's not hard. Why don't you wanna do it? Burn the whole fuckin' country, why don't you? Why don't you? Take the damn pen and do it. Do to him what he did to you_—

He shuddered.

But Toris had underestimated Ludwig again.

Pressing his palms into the wood, Ludwig suddenly took a great, deep breath to steady himself, pushing himself forward until he was pressed against the edge of the desk, and it was terrible, and it was horrible, and it would have been unfathomable to an outsider, but Toris could _see _it.

He could see that light that suddenly crossed through Ludwig's dull, misty eyes.

Determination. The need to please.

Ludwig _wanted _to impress Ivan. He could see it.

As Ivan continued to whisper things that Toris could neither hear nor even imagine, the real Ludwig fled with a great sigh, and the Ludwig that Ivan was creating suddenly swallowed in what might have been a effort to stifle nausea, and then smiled.

Ludwig smiled. Pale and weak and barely there, but a smile nonetheless.

Ludwig looked up, then, and caught his eye yet again, and this time he could see that there was something that almost looked like pleading upon his face, as though he were somehow trying to seek Toris' forgiveness for what he was about to do.

As though, in his confused, disjointed, muddled mind, Ludwig was trying to rationalize and justify this horrible deed, and maybe he was thinking to himself, 'Well, Ivan gave me a name, so I have to live up to it!'

Good-natured, harmless Ludwig was suddenly not so harmless.

Not under Ivan's influence.

Toris could only watch in a numb daze as Ludwig clenched the pen in his hand, ignored the cold sweat on his brow, and tried to steady his fingers, hunkering over and studying the map like he was _really _thinking about it.

Like he was really going to make out a path of war.

Ivan leered at Toris from above Ludwig's shoulder, looking exceedingly satisfied and content and maybe even gleeful, and he could hear the eagerness in his voice as he said, breathlessly, "Make me proud."

Ludwig shook his head, maybe trying in vain to clear out that mist, and Toris could only furrow his brow and push away the pang of envy.

Proud? _He _had never managed to make Ivan proud.

_Oh_, he could understand Ludwig's need to impress Ivan. He had striven _so _hard to impress Ivan. It had just never worked for him.

Christ, there was that goddamn _resentment _again, coming back to torment him, and he couldn't understand why everything _he _did was always second to something Ludwig did.

Toris obeyed, and Ludwig ran.

Clenching his fists at his sides, he stayed still and silent so that he would not anger Ivan, and stared straight ahead, as Ivan's adored Ludwig brought the pen down to the paper, and began to ask questions.

"Well... Which is the smallest?"

He had underestimated Ludwig. He had underestimated the extent of Ivan's control over him. He had thought it would take longer to get inside Ludwig's head. He had even thought that Ludwig would have killed himself before he did something like this.

Underestimated?

No.

He had _over_estimated Ludwig.

_Susceptible to manipulation. Psychologist highly recommended._

He hadn't _thought _it—he had _hoped _that it would have taken longer.

But sometimes...

Sometimes, Ivan's words were just too powerful.

Ivan was God.

Ludwig had surrendered. And he would draw out death for student rebels just so that Ivan would be proud of him.

Toris understood. He had done worse things to make Ivan happy.

It wasn't Ludwig's fault.

Turning his back on ethicality and morality, because Ivan wanted to be impressed and he wanted _to _impress, Ludwig took another deep breath, and stepped into the dark with the scratch of the marker upon the paper.

Toris wondered if he would ever come back out again.

Ivan was twitching in excitement. His favorite game. Ludwig was playing for keeps.

Toris wondered if Ludwig had shut himself down and obeyed so quickly because he was afraid that Ivan would take back those damn papers if he failed to impress.

Ludwig and Ivan should never have encountered each other. It had the makings of a perfect storm.

Toris could feel it.

Ludwig sat there, and every stroke of the pen across the paper was a painful reminder that Ivan had expected something far more from Ludwig, and Ludwig was acclimating almost too well.

How much longer before the real Ludwig was gone completely?

"Do you have anyone on the inside?"

Ludwig was playing much more seriously than Toris ever had.

But then, maybe Ludwig had more at stake then Toris had.

"Ah," Ivan drawled, and seemed to perk up in what could have been eagerness as he leaned forward, pushing Ludwig farther into the desk, "I have two in Odessa."

"Do the groups communicate with each other?"

Ludwig's voice was low and distant. Almost apathetic. Mechanical. Not his own.

"They must. They keep organizing riots across the border lines. Odessa has radioed the others in Kiev at least twice while my men have been there."

...ha. What was this, _Espionage 101_?

Suddenly, the urge to salute was back, and maybe this wasn't Ludwig at all.

_Ha_!

It was just Colonel Müller. Of course.

Suddenly so sick that he was almost giddy, Toris shuffled his feet, and tried to wipe the smile from his face as Ivan sent him a quick glance of annoyance.

Minutes of silence, as the wheels grinded in Ludwig's confused head, and then finally Ludwig fell back, holding his paper in his hands and staring down at it with something that could have been nervousness.

When Ivan tried to peer over his shoulder and see it, Ludwig pushed it down and shielded it with his hands, as though suddenly abashed. And Ivan just giggled, and tried to pry it away with gentle fingers, and Toris resisted the urge to sigh and shake his head.

Yeah, this may as well have been a class, alright.

He suddenly felt like he was surrounded by schoolchildren, at any rate, as Ivan whined, "Let me see!" as he tried to pry the paper from Ludwig's fingers, and Ludwig just look mortified and suddenly there was a flush of red on his pale cheeks.

Like they hadn't just decided the fate of hundreds. Like Ludwig was trying in vain to hide a love note, instead of a paper that had upon it something like war crimes.

His giddiness was gone, replaced with a chill.

Finally, Ivan took the paper, and as he scanned it with cool eyes, his smile widened so that his teeth were visible.

"How great!" he finally gushed, and Toris felt a twinge of disappointment as Ludwig's shoulders relaxed in obvious relief.

Ludwig had been worried that Ivan would laugh at him.

Toris wasn't surprised. To Ivan, everything that _Ludwig _did was _great_.

"Listen here, Toris," Ivan suddenly said in Russian, and his voice was much less soft and gentle when he was speaking to someone other than Ludwig, "You might learn something."

Toris wanted to say, 'I don't want to learn.'

He would never dare.

Instead, he straightened up at attention, and looked straight ahead, keeping himself impassive as Ludwig squirmed on Ivan's lap, no doubt agitated that Ivan was speaking and he could not understand.

Ivan held the paper before him in one hand, clenching Ludwig inescapably with the other, and Toris didn't dare to even breathe as Ivan began to speak.

He did not look over to meet Ludwig's eyes. He couldn't.

"Look at this Toris! He wants me to use the informants in Odessa to radio Kiev and tell them I'm coming! Ah ha, and while Kiev is getting ready for war, we'll engage in a little sneak attack up behind Odessa and Sofia. And then—this is the best part—he _still _wants to go barreling into Kiev, even though they'd _know _we were coming! On the same day. He wants to take them all out on the same day. Look, look, men and tanks divided perfectly..."

A pause, and then Ivan set the paper upon the desk, and this time Toris' could not escape his gaze as he stared him down with frightening intensity, and Ludwig was squirming more than ever.

"You see? Isn't he great? Goddamn Germans, ruthless, conniving sons of bitches! I told you, it's in their blood. His first time, and how well he did it! What's your excuse, Toris? _You_ already knew how to do all this shit. Why can't you come up with anything better than just covering your eyes and putting your finger on the map? Huh?"

He could not find his voice, and Ivan's gaze was too unnerving. He finally broke attention, and lowered his eyes.

Ivan gave a deep scoff, and turned his interest, like he always did, back to Ludwig.

"See?" Ivan whispered, switching languages with a smoothness that was uncanny, and it was with a lopsided leer that he leaned forward and placed a firm kiss upon Ludwig's cheek, sending Toris another one of those triumphant stares as he did so, "I knew you could do it! You're so smart. See, I told you we were the same. See how easy it was for you? I'll have everything set up by the end of the day. We'll do it your way, alright? You did so well! Easy, right?"

It hadn't been _easy_, not in any sense of the word, and it was obvious by the terrible shaking of Ludwig's hands upon the desk. Ivan saw it, and his smile never faltered.

"I'm proud of you. Don't let it bother you, Ludwig. Think of them as statistics, not people. And just think, when they're all wiped out, you'll always know that _you _were the genius behind it."

A strange silence.

Ludwig's pulse resumed its mad dash in his neck, visible even from a distance, and suddenly he bowed his head, and Toris could _swear _that he was struggling not to burst into tears.

He knew then. The real Ludwig was back. And what he had done was tearing him apart.

...he hadn't overestimated Ludwig at all.

"I leave for Moscow tomorrow," Ivan said, and with his strong hands he grabbed Ludwig's belt and pulled the both of them upright.

Ludwig just stood there, head bowed and shoulders slumped.

Toris could not help him.

It was too late now. What was done was done. There was no taking it back.

...it wouldn't hurt so much the next time.

Ludwig would get used to it. It was better to get it over with.

Ivan was still enjoying the rush of control, and suddenly he gave a great gasp, as though he just couldn't contain himself any longer, and was with a breathless voice that he grabbed Ludwig's hand and said, eagerly, "Come with me to Moscow! Come see the troops off with me. Would you like that?"

Ludwig, head still bowed, hesitated.

Ivan's hands moved up and fell upon his shoulders, an unassuming act, but it was enough to stir Ludwig from his stupor, and finally, he nodded his head.

Ivan looked triumphant. Excited.

Toris couldn't help but wonder the things he whispered to Ludwig when they were alone.

"I've got to make arrangements," Ivan said, gripping Ludwig's shoulders firmly, if not gently, "I'll be back later. We'll leave first thing in the morning. Why don't you find some clothes that you like? Toris can show you some. He'll help you figure out the uniform. Toris is useful for _that_, at least. I'll be back soon. I promise."

Ignoring the light jab, Toris kept his eyes on the desk and waited for Ivan to take his leave.

He did, finally, but not after clapping Ludwig on the back in playful camaraderie, so hard that Ludwig nearly stumbled, and then without a glance at Toris he was gone.

As soon as the door was shut, everything went still.

Toris relaxed. The air was breathable.

For a moment, he was content to stand there, and let the dismal atmosphere seep out on its own, because he didn't know what to _say _to Ludwig.

He was going to stay silent. He didn't know what to say.

Why did he need to say anything? Let Ivan comfort Ludwig later.

Silence.

And then, as he turned to the door, Ludwig suddenly staggered back, coming to a rest against the wall, and after seconds of staring silently at his feet, he sank down to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

Toris froze.

That numbing shame was back, and for a moment he only stood there, unsure of what to do as Ludwig huddled on the floor and seemed to be giving every effort not to just collapse or dissolve into tears.

A churning of guilt in his stomach.

_None _of this was Ludwig's fault. It wasn't fair.

Finally, he found his feet and came over, crouching down and placing a tentative hand on Ludwig's shoulder, whispering, weakly, "Hey... It's alright."

Hardly comforting, but what else could he do?

Ludwig didn't move at first, sitting there against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest and shaking his head behind his folded arms, and Toris rested himself on his knees, as the guilt became overwhelming.

Ludwig had been put under his care. He should have warned Ludwig and prepared him for this. He was supposed to help him. He hadn't done anything.

He had left Ludwig to fend for himself.

Ludwig finally spoke, his voice muffled for his arms as he moaned, miserably, "Oh, what did I do? What did I do? Toris, tell me what I did. What did I do?"

His voice was deep, rough and scratchy.

Ludwig's voice. The real Ludwig's voice. Not that soft, smooth, velvety rumble that he spoke in when he was not himself.

It was just Ludwig.

"Don't think about it too much, Ludwig," was his lame attempt at comfort, "It won't really matter, in the end. If you think about it a lot... It's just easier to pretend, you know? Just forget it. Forget it."

Suddenly, Ludwig looked up at him, through bleary eyes, and whispered, strangely, "Don't look, right?"

A hesitation, and then he nodded, and said, "Yeah. That's right."

Ludwig's pale eyes fell upon his hands, and Toris felt a stirring of nervousness as he reached out and took his hand within his own, studying it almost expectantly, before murmuring, "I'm glad your hands aren't bleeding anymore, Toris."

He suppressed a shudder as Ludwig's cool hands twisted his own this way and that.

What was he looking for?

Finally, he pulled his hands away, gently, and tried to hold Ludwig's wandering gaze.

"You feel alright? Here, come on, let's get out of here."

When Toris tried to pull him upright, Ludwig resisted, and then he looked up at him and said, "You know! I knew someone once who used to fight with the students!"

And then he burst into tears.

Alarmed and feeling more terrible than he had in years, Toris fell back down and pulled Ludwig into a loose embrace (all that he dared), and it _hurt _more than anything to realize that Ludwig had said, 'I knew _someone'_.

Not 'my brother'.

Maybe Ludwig _really _couldn't remember exactly who it was he had known.

It was so easy to forget...

The real Ludwig was slowly dissipating.

It wasn't _fair_.

Ludwig came and went, in and out of the fog of Ivan's presence, sometimes himself and sometimes someone else. Both of them were harmless and gentle, for now, but one of them was aware of himself and one of them only waited for Ivan. One of them knew right from wrong and one of them knew only the authority of Ivan. One of them could think for himself. The other could not. One of them was alert. The other was dreamy. One of them spoke with a rough voice. The other spoke softly and serenely.

One was still.

The other was stirring.

It was alarming. Who could know which Ludwig was going to appear?

He liked this Ludwig. Ludwig, who bowed to his conscience and could still feel remorse. This Ludwig, who was burying his face in his shirt and _regretting_.

He didn't want to see that other Ludwig. The dreamy, distant, unnerving one.

He wondered, suddenly, if _he_ was so different than he once had been. Had he once been someone else? He couldn't remember.

_Oh_.

He didn't _want _Ludwig to go to Moscow with Ivan. He didn't _want _Ludwig to be forced to oversee troops.

To get a taste for it.

When Ludwig came back from Moscow, when Ludwig came back from this trip, he wouldn't be Ludwig anymore.

Ludwig wouldn't come back.

He wouldn't be the same. It would be someone _else_. He might not ever see this Ludwig again.

Ivan wanted to turn Ludwig into someone else. A mirror image of himself. Ivan _always _won.

Ludwig wouldn't come back.

He sat there with Ludwig, silent and still, until Ludwig finally gathered himself, and when he helped Ludwig up to his feet and steadied him, he suddenly wanted to cry, too, because when Ludwig met his eyes, all of that emotion was gone again.

So swiftly the winds had shifted.

The mists were back, and Ludwig stood there for a moment, watching Toris with a frightening serenity, and then he tilted his head to the side, and it was with a soft, suave voice that he whispered, dreamily, "Are you alright, Toris?"

Toris could only nod.

Someone else.

It wasn't fair.


	20. Chapter 19

**A/N **: PLEASE go check out this AMAZING painting (a REAL _painting_! AWESOME!) that Lily made : :/i-roll-in-the-grass. deviantartcom/ art/Zachem-Ya-319720066 (Thanks SO MUCH, btw. You're so _awesome_.) So PLEASE go check it out and give the artist her deserved gushing. XD (stupid site won't let me link, so a much easier way to see is **to just click on the link in my profile**)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

It was like a ghost town.

No people. Snow and ice all over.

The pale light of the moon overhead, and a little speck of dull pink on the horizon of the soon-to-rise sun in the East. The air was bitterly cold, the wind nearly threatening to knock him right off his feet. Everything was frozen and coated with crystals.

If he had reached out and touched the bare tree, it might have shattered like glass.

No clouds.

Stars.

Yellow lights, in a neat little row, glowing out against the darkness like beacons. The smell of coal.

The train station looked like something from a ghost town, and there was only one train, just two cars, sitting there on the tracks, glistening in the moonlight, plumes of white smoke gushing out from within the bowels of its furnace, and there was only one person that appeared to be working here. A man, standing back in a booth, bundled in a coat and an ushanka, and from the way he continued to stifle his yawns, it was obvious that he was only here because he had been dragged out of bed to get this train rolling for just one man.

But then, Ludwig knew, no one would dare refuse to do something that Ivan asked of them, even if it was to get up at four in the morning in sub-zero temperatures to direct a train that would have only two passengers.

He wasn't sure exactly where they were.

Not in Mirny.

Ivan had shaken him awake at an ungodly hour and loaded him up in the car like baggage, and he had been too dazed and bleary to even bother asking where they were going. It didn't really matter, in the end. This little place probably didn't even have a name. Just a little ghost town, no doubt a tiny satellite of the diamond mine settlement.

No one else really seemed to be here, aside from the conductor tinkering around up front, and, for now, they stood there at the loading gate, in the biting air, waiting for the man to come around and get everything situated.

The tracks started here. Nothing beyond.

It was freezing.

This time, Ivan had made sure that he was prepared for this weather, and that there was no threat of hypothermia.

Some part of him felt somewhat silly.

Wrapped up in one of Ivan's huge fur coats, buttoned all the way up to his chin, his ushanka tied up firmly, boots high and gloves tucked into the sleeves of his coat, and Ivan pressed into his side, holding his hand in a firm, warm grip.

His nose was numb. The air stung his lungs.

It was alright. Ivan was with him.

The door suddenly swung open and the conductor stood before them, greeting them with a stiff salute, and even though his fingers were tingling with cold he reached up before he even realized it and returned the gesture.

He could see Ivan's smile.

A tug, and he was pulled gently up the short staircase, and when they fell down into a cold, cushioned seat, when Ivan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a firm embrace, he found that he was _glad_, for the first time, that Toris had not accompanied them.

He liked being alone with Ivan, in these calm moods.

As the door shut behind them and the train gave a great, creaking lurch as it started forward, its wheels screeching and grinding on the frozen tracks, he looked around, Ivan's heavy arm around his shoulders, and took in his surroundings with a bleary mind.

The car was dark.

Ghostly, as the pale moonlight streamed in through the frosty windows and lit up the car in shades of blue and silver. Shadows flitted across the wall as the train began to gather speed.

It was not what he had expected. Not the average train car.

Obviously a private room, commissioned for officers, elegant and high-class, meant for long-distance traveling. Instead of the hard wooden benches, they sat upon a sofa, coated with a woven fabric that felt similar to velvet. The panel beneath suggested a metal bed frame within that could be pulled out. A little table in the corner, bolted to the floor. Chairs around it. Curtains on the windows. Cabinets overhead. An icebox near the table, no doubt full of food. A tiny electric stove. Before the sofa, astoundingly, a fireplace.

A little hotel room, more than a train car.

The shadows shifted.

They were on their way.

His sleepiness was mingled with excitement at going on what would really be his first journey.

His first trip, if such a word could really describe it. Adventure was more suited, perhaps. Well, at any rate, his first _lucid_ trip. The last journey from Brno to Moscow had been lost to illness.

The high-pitched shrieking of the great wheels on the tracks was dull through the windows.

Ivan, tucked into his side, looked this way and that as though he might have been trying to stay awake, and then finally attempted conversation.

"The Trans-Siberian railway," came the sudden voice in his ear, and when he looked over, Ivan was smiling at him, not quite as awake and alert as he usually was, eyes heavy and lidded.

Dumbly, he said only, "Huh?" and Ivan inclined his head towards the window.

"This track," he explained. "It's the Trans-Siberian railway. Well, actually, this is really the Baikal-Amur, but we'll hook into the Trans-Siberian in about two days. This whole railroad—it's made everything so much easier. We can get to Moscow all the way from here safely. No driving, no little planes." Ivan's brow furrowed, thoughtfully, sleep-shocked and speaking almost randomly. "I hate those little planes! They can get knocked around so much in the wind. You know, I lost a few good men that way a few years back. Such risky little things! I never use them anymore. Toris likes them, who knows why. I like trains much better. Homey. Safer. A _lot _safer."

Ivan's enthusiasm of trains was palpable, despite his sleepy eyes and scratchy voice, and yet for all of his explanations and offerings of opinions and small-talk, the only thing Ludwig could really think of to respond with was a soft, earnest, "Your German's gotten really good, you know."

Ivan twitched strangely, as though he had been intending to speak, and instead he fell still and looked over with wide eyes. A hesitation, and he finally asked, breathlessly, "You think so?"

Ludwig nodded his head.

Ivan's sleepy eyes lit up with what was quite obviously self-satisfaction.

"I've been studying still! You taught me a lot." Ivan gave a short laugh. "Sometimes, before, you talked to me and I just pretended that I could understand. I guessed some things. And then I went and asked Toris what that word really meant, or this one."

Ivan's arm was warm around his shoulder.

The moonlighted flitted in and out behind the dead trees.

Ludwig loosely grasped that Ivan was admitting, however casually, a shortcoming. Moments of imperfection.

How strange.

Ivan knew everything. Ivan was always right. Ivan never needed help.

To err is human—was Ivan? Ivan was something more. Ivan asking someone else for help. Mystifying, almost.

He could only imagine poor Toris, having to put on an impassive face and feign admiration even as he had been reduced to little more than a walking, talking dictionary.

A quiet whisper interrupted his thoughts.

"I feel strange having you ride over this stretch."

Ivan turned his eyes back to the window, an unusually serious look upon his face. Brow creased and lips pursed, his arm fell from Ludwig's shoulders and down, swiftly grabbing up his hand as though something unwelcome were threatening to come near.

His voice was barely audible.

"Most if these tracks here were built after the war. By all the Germans that were caught around Leningrad and Stalingrad. Prisoners from the gulags. Ha! You know, I spent years making political prisoners work out in the snow and watching them freeze until they couldn't even walk anymore, and yet..."

Ivan's eyes were strange, brightening and darkening with the intermittent glimmers of moonlight.

"I used to wish that I could have been there to have a gulag full of the Germans. When I was little, listening to the radio with my parents and Irina and hearing about the tanks and the soldiers coming in and burning everything. I wished that I'd had some of them, so I could make them rebuild everything until they died out in the snow. And yet now, thinking about it..."

Ivan turned, freezing him up in one of those heavy, intense stares.

"I'm glad now that we're in the year we are. Thinking of a German working on the tracks now, I don't think I could stand it, not if one of them had looked like you. If it had been you..."

Ivan's grip around his hand was suddenly so tight that it was painful.

He seemed to be speaking more to himself than anyone else.

"I'm glad it wasn't you that made these tracks. There are a lot of ghosts out here, I think. I wonder if any of them looked like you."

And then Ivan fell still, and leaned his head back into the couch, staring out with a blank expression.

...odd comments.

Ivan was not himself. Maybe it was the moonlight making him say such strange things. Or a simpler explanation; at that moment, Ivan reached up his right hand to cover a great, prolonged yawn.

It was probably just the strange, disjointed talk of a sleepy mind.

Ivan was not fully alert.

And at any rate, the ghosts of the railroad did not concern him as much as the ghosts lurking behind closed doors did. The past that should just be left behind. The war was over with. No point in dwelling on things that could not be changed.

"How long will it take to get there?" he asked, in an attempt to take Ivan's mind from heavy thoughts.

It worked, perhaps, for Ivan's grip upon his hand slackened.

"Ten days."

Well, maybe the little planes weren't as safe, but they certainly were much faster.

Such a long time...

Ivan saw his look, and laughed, roughly. "Don't worry! It won't be so boring once we get a little closer. Then you can see all the towns when they go by. There's plenty of room to walk around in here, so you won't just be sitting still for ten days! And there's plenty of food, too."

A gentle pinch on the side of his neck.

"This is a good time for you to put on a little weight, yeah? That way you can put up with the cold a little better."

He only smiled.

The train rocked gently back and forth, the warmth of Ivan's smooth gloves pleasant against his skin.

He was glad that Toris hadn't come along. Twitchy, anxious, moody little Toris would have just made him nervous, and agitated Ivan. It was better when it was just the two of them.

"Are you cold? I'll light the fire up."

He didn't need to speak; Ivan was already up anyway.

Ivan crept over to the fireplace with silent feet, crouching down and taking up a long match from within a box that sat on a little end-table.

A hiss as the match struck. The train was lit up in an inferno.

The dark and the blue moonlight fled, replaced with orange and red. He could see the patterns on the wallpaper. Red and gold, woven vines and French style, intricate details.

The velvet curtains caught fire in the light.

Red.

Squinting in the sudden blaze, he averted his head as his eyes adjusted, and Ivan was back at his side in an instant, falling down eagerly and immediately resuming the broken contact.

"It'll warm up in a minute," came the whisper in his ear. "Sleep for now."

Sleep? Easy.

His nose was cold, despite the fire. He fell forward, and buried his face beneath Ivan's great coat.

Time passed.

Ivan's arm stayed firmly around his shoulders.

The high moon faded into a pink dawn. The stars vanished.

Ivan dozed off at some point, too; he could hear the deep breathing beyond the veil of fog.

Sleep came easy on this cold train, and even as the morning faded into late afternoon, still he hung there in the haze of unconsciousness, drifting in and out every so often, starting a bit whenever Ivan shifted or when the train lurched oddly over chunks of ice and snow.

The sun was low and red on the horizon when he finally awoke.

A movement within his coat started him from sleep, and when he looked up in a bleary daze, eyes darting back and forth in an attempt to focus and settle, he saw that it was just Ivan, sticking his hand down within his pocket as though searching for something.

Ludwig watched him, silently.

Ivan's eyes glowed golden in the orange light of the setting sun.

What was he looking for?

Seconds later, Ivan looked down, and finally retrieved his hand from within the depths of Ludwig's pocket, and there was a gleam of gold in the light. It caught his eye, and he looked up to see Ivan studying a small rock, or maybe it was a gem, head tilted and eyes scrutinizing.

Had that been in his pocket?

Finally, Ivan asked, as the glowing rock sent waves of rippling color upon the dim walls of the car, "What's this?"

For a moment, Ludwig couldn't even remember.

Ivan sent him a cool look and a smile, waiting patiently.

Squinting his eyes, he concentrated, attempting to cast a light on the fog.

_Please be careful, Ludwig! I'm so worried about you..._

It came to him, slowly and blurrily.

The day before.

After that long, dark stretch that he couldn't really remember, but was vaguely aware had happened.

A map.

Ivan had left. The walk through the hall. Toris stood him up and held him steady in front of the mirror, and the uniform had been pulled on before he had really even realized it, but he had shaken his head to clear it and focused his thoughts all the same because this uniform had been different. Slate-grey, of a finer thread and glossier sheen. Toris had been speaking to him, explaining little things in a strange, weak voice as he wound belts here and there and connected clasps and pinned on medals, stating that this was a parade uniform, for special military occasions, not the field uniform in olive that he had worn before.

Toris had looked disheartened. He had been enthralled.

Seeing himself in the mirror, looking like _that_—important and high-ranking and groomed—he had not been able to suppress the smile. Shoes of black glass and leather belts polished, hat crisp and immaculate, and for the first time in a long, long time, he had almost felt _proud _of himself.

Like he was really _someone_.

Maybe Toris had seen it, and that was why he had suddenly taken Ludwig's hands up within his own and forced something cool and sleek inside of his palms, saying urgently, 'Here, look, I got this for you! For Christmas, really, but I was too mad to give to you, but—just take it, alright? It's for good luck! It'll help keep you safe.'

He hadn't really looked at it then, not really, too busy gawking at himself in the mirror, and had merely slipped it in his pocket with an absent hand.

This was it. He didn't remember putting it in his coat. Toris must have fished it out of the uniform when he had taken it off and relocated it, predicting his absent mind.

Ivan held it up now, and he saw it himself for the first time. So, this little rock was Toris' great gift to him. A glossy little piece of amber.

He found his voice.

"Toris gave it to me," he finally said, and Ivan gave a deep snort.

"Did he?" was the quirky response, and Ludwig could only nod. A silence, and he watched as Ivan held the little piece of amber within his gloved palm, tossing it up and down absently. Finally, he clenched the little rock within a closed fist and asked, "For what?"

_Keep it with you, alright? _

"Good luck. He said it would protect me."

Even as he said it, the words felt ridiculous on his tongue.

From what?

Why would Toris give him such a silly thing, when he had Ivan at his side? As if a rock could protect him better than Ivan could.

"Ah," Ivan murmured, and then he leaned his head back into the seat and laughed. "Well! Well then, in that case, you should keep a good eye on it." And with that, Ivan tilted his hand and dropped the little gem back into his pocket, smiling quite cheerily. "I want you lucky! Maybe Toris believes such things enough to make them true."

He patted the lining of the pocket airily, and then returned his arm around Ludwig's shoulders.

"I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

And, with the lolling train and the warmth of the fire and of Ivan, he did.

He didn't dream.

He did not wake again until late that night, to Ivan shaking him awake and within seconds forcing food down his throat. He didn't protest.

Hours rolled by.

Snow was falling in some places. Other places were just grey and cloudy.

Ice coated the tracks.

The barreling train never faltered.

The days passed quietly and without great event. They just sat together.

He spent the first two days sleeping, almost every available hour. Catching up on desperately needed rest. Recharging his batteries, so to speak.

It must have worked.

The third day, he awoke without that heaviness in his chest, and, for the first time in what felt like months, he felt alert and aware of his surroundings, able to process and think clearly, seeing things and comprehending them without struggling to piece it together. The constant ache in his head was gone.

He felt better.

The sleep had done him good. This train ride was exactly what he had needed.

Clearheaded and feeling serene and tranquil, he looked around for Ivan when he realized he was not at his side. And with his new sense of clarity, he found him quickly.

Off towards the fireplace, he sat hunched down at the table in the corner, eyes focused and tongue poking out as he attempted to stack up a little house of cards in what was obviously a _desperate _attempt to stave off boredom.

The cards kept falling.

A grumbled curse in Russian, and Ludwig leaned back in the sofa, content to watch from within a warmth of subdued calm, and for a moment, he was almost overwhelmed with a flood of what could have been affection.

Strange, to see Ivan playing with cards and holding a low conversation with himself, muttering curses here and there and doing something so childish while wearing such an imposing uniform.

He pulled his knees up, and huddled in his coat.

The fire had died out.

Ivan, lost in his game, hadn't noticed it.

Oh well. It wasn't as cold here, wherever _here _was, as it had been back home, and he was comfortable enough and well-rested enough just to sit there and take in the sights.

He felt _better_.

It must have shown, too, for when Ivan finally happened to look up and see that he was being watched, he seemed to hone in on it immediately, and raised up a brow, drawing up fallen cards under his fingers.

Always smiling.

"Hey, you're awake. You feel better, huh?"

Ludwig nodded, and after a quiet moment of thoughtfulness, he pulled himself up onto wobbly legs and went carefully over to the table (although his precaution was just that—his balance was better than it had been since he had woken up here in a daze that first time), and with a sigh, he sat himself down in the chair that was opposite Ivan.

When Ivan leaned forward, amicably, he realized that he was seeking Ivan out of his own volition, bringing himself up to the great tiger without being asked to.

Funny, how things happened.

Ivan's look was bright. Cheerful.

Pressing his stomach into the table and leaning forward, he reached out and gathered up a portion of the cards for himself. As Ivan beamed at him from across the way, he only asked, simply, "Need help?"

He didn't really expect Ivan to admit it, even if he for some reason _did_, and sure enough, Ivan only laughed it off with a wave off his hand and an airy, "Damn thing won't stay up."

No problem.

"Here, you have to do it like this," he heard himself murmur, and when he reached out and placed the cards that formed the base in the correct manner, carefully and calmly, he could see that his hands were steady and sure; unwavering.

No trembling. His hands were steady. Just fine.

In minutes, a little house of cards. Nothing grand; amateur at best. But it was still upright, and still stable.

Ivan watched him with lidded eyes, resting his chin in his palm, and finally he asked, "Where'd you learn to do that?"

He tilted his head, and tried to remember.

But he only drew a blank.

Maybe it had been...

_Aw, hell, look, little fucker fell again! Don't worry, you'll get it up next time! Keep tryin'._

...huh.

Nothing.

"Dunno," he finally supplied, and Ivan just smiled, knowingly.

Whose voice had that been? Whispers in the dark.

"Hey. You wanna play?"

Ivan tapped the cards within his hand against the table, eagerly.

A game of cards with Ivan? Sure. He nodded his head, shaking off that squirm of _something _with ease, and Ivan set about shuffling the cards with enthusiasm.

A game. Why not?

After all, it was still such a long journey and the space was limited and there was no way to go strolling outside, and right now the great tiger was just a kitten—

_It's just a game! Don't let it bother you._

—playful and energetic.

A shudder of something.

"Poker?"

Without waiting for a confirmation, Ivan tossed the cards skillfully into little piles.

Just the two of them? Hardly a game of poker. Just something to pass the time, and maybe Ivan was looking for a reason to attempt to bond a little more, which he would not deny, and he shrugged off this new squirm as easily as he had the last.

Just a game. No harm came from games...

"So, Ludwig, what should we wager?"

Ludwig stayed wisely silent, taking his cards in his hands and keeping a steady eye on Ivan from across the table. Ivan's look of innocent contemplation was betrayed by the churning of his eyes.

A cool, coy look.

"I know! How about, for every hand I win, I get a kiss?"

He could feel the horrible flush on his cheeks, but attempted to maintain composure nonetheless and came back with, "And if _I _win?"

Ivan only giggled, and the game began.

Ludwig quickly discovered that Ivan didn't _need _to answer, because Ivan never lost.

Five hands (and five losses) later Ludwig finally folded and consented complete defeat before he got so far in over his head that he'd never be able to climb out again.

Ivan always won. Ludwig suspected foul play. Not that he would ever say it aloud, of course. Ivan would deny it, anyway.

"Well!" Ivan said merrily, as he tucked the cards into their box and set them aside, "That was fun, wasn't it? Let's see, so that's five I won, right? I'll have to keep good track of them!"

Ludwig ducked his head in a futile effort to hide the blush, and Ivan leered at him, fingers tapping the table.

A quiet moment, and then Ivan was leaning forward, hanging low so that he could look up at Ludwig and see him, even despite the effort to avoid such eye contact.

"You look better!" Ivan observed, a pleased look on his face as he reached across the table, taking Ludwig's chin in his fingers and tilting his head up, examining and scrutinizing. Finally, Ivan nodded his head, mostly to himself, and declared, quite cheerily, "Look, you don't look so tired. I'm glad for it!"

He didn't feel so tired, truthfully.

Just a bit subdued. Mellow. A pleasant, if not somewhat strange, feeling.

These calm moments alone on the train were welcome. A tranquil, slow-paced contrast to the volatile world outside.

No matter what storm clouds hung over Moscow, everything here was as still and quiet as a pond.

Ivan just stared at him, smiling. A happy, serene voice.

"I'm glad it's just us. I like it when it's just us."

He could not help but smile, not seeing Ivan's enthusiastic, amicable beam, and the warm gaze upon him was pleasant. He liked Ivan in these loose, casual moods, when formality was forgotten and there were no intruding factors (like Toris, or work, or even a bottle of vodka) to cause agitation.

Just calm. No real chance of a thunderstorm.

"Me too," he finally whispered in response, his voice low and husky from embarrassment, and with the words Ivan's face lit up like the sun.

"I'm so glad! I'd have us spend every hour just like this, by ourselves. Everything feels so much better when you're around. No one else to bother us. If I could just forget work and spend all day with you..."

A hand crossed the table and fell across his own.

He would have liked that, too. For Ivan to abandon all work.

He didn't like it when Ivan worked—

_It's not so hard! Come on, which one?_

—even if he couldn't quite grasp _why_.

Darkness.

Ivan's work brought darkness. It was better to stay isolated on the train.

Time passed in silence.

Moving here and there. Walking around to prevent cramping.

Despite Ivan's occasional urging, he couldn't go back to sleep, no matter how long he closed his eyes or how deeply he buried his face in the warm folds of Ivan's coat.

He was wide awake.

The third and fourth day went by quietly.

Ivan tried his best to keep him engaged and out of boredom's way, chatting here and there about random things and sometimes pulling out the cards, but activities on a moving train were few and far between.

Sometimes, Ivan's hands wandered, as though he had thought of _one _thing to do, but in the end, he always pulled away and contented himself with reconfirming that Ludwig was still a bit too skinny and that he needed to catch up on a little more sleep.

He was restless.

Sleep wouldn't come.

And finally, he said as much, as Ivan attempted to shove his head back into the darkness beneath his coat.

"I'm alright, for now."

Ivan paused, and then shrugged a casual shoulder.

"Can't sleep, huh?"

He shook his head.

Ivan fell still, tapping his foot upon the floor, and then he smiled.

"Well," Ivan began, eagerly, "Why don't we talk? I like talking to you, but you're so quiet sometimes!"

Was he?

"I don't think you've ever really talked, come to think."

Maybe he hadn't.

What could he say? What could he really say that would be of interest to someone like Ivan? Someone important and charismatic and overwhelming?

Anything he said would not live up to Ivan's expectations. Better to stay quiet.

"I'd rather listen to you," was what he finally managed, and Ivan seemed thoroughly ecstatic at his declaration.

A breathless smile.

"Really? Well, I didn't know!"

Leaning back into the sofa, Ivan wrapped great arms around him and drew him up to his chest, and then he started speaking.

He didn't stop for hours. Ludwig listened to every word. Ivan wove tales of adventure and excitement and victories. Glories of the military and personal triumphs.

And for it, he felt somehow inadequate.

He had no such tales. Just dreary days and gloomy moods and passing shadows without names. He couldn't remember some things that before had seemed so close to him.

It didn't matter; Ivan's voice was smooth and easy on the ears.

Was this how it would always be between them when they were alone?

This casual warmth and affection? Ivan's dominance falling down in protectiveness and adoration rather than agitation and aggression?

He liked this. It had been so long since he had just spent time with anyone. Since anyone had sat down with him and just _talked _to him. Enjoying his presence. It was intoxicating to have a sense that, for once, he was really _important _to someone.

That maybe there was someone out there who would not leave him alone in the end.

Someone who wouldn't let him down. Someone who would always be there.

Ivan was always beside of him. Always with him. Always watching him. Always taking charge and always looking so _happy _just to be around him.

What could be better than that? Having someone just smile at him. A rush better than vodka or any drug. The way Ivan looked at him was exhilarating.

For the first time in so long, he felt like he really belonged somewhere.

Despite his initial reluctances and even that shrill little alarm that lit up in his mind sometimes, maybe everything had worked out exactly like it was supposed to. Maybe this was where he had always been meant to be.

With Ivan.

Days passed.

He was becoming restless.

Snow.

Snow.

More snow. Everywhere. Forests and icy lakes and every so often, a little town far off in the distance, frozen and still.

And then, after the sixth day, the endless forests began to thin.

Civilization.

Little houses here and there. They stopped in a city (not Moscow, Ivan was quick to point out), to change conductors.

Ludwig wanted nothing more than to leap out and explore, but even though Ivan humored his leaning against the window and popping up on his toes to see the buildings, when he sent him a look of longing over his shoulder, Ivan only shook his head.

They did not get off here.

He did not dare give a sigh of regret, for fear of upsetting Ivan with his childishness, and merely grabbed a hold of the windowsill, his forehead pressed against the glass, and _oh_, how he longed to get off this train and go off on adventures here with Ivan.

Just to walk, if only a little. But after an hour or so, the train was chugging along again.

Days passed.

"We're almost there," Ivan suddenly said one morning, his voice starting Ludwig from his lethargy, "Just another hour or so."

Finally. What a long journey.

His relief was palpable, perhaps; Ivan snorted.

Leaning in, Ivan reached out and took a handful of his messy, uncombed hair, and added, "You should go ahead and get dressed. I want you looking presentable when we step off. A lot of nosy people in Moscow, you know."

Blearily, he muttered, "I thought you hated the people in Moscow?"

Ivan, always quick and thoroughly unconcerned, merely responded, "All the more reason for you to look nice."

Sleepy and cold, he nodded his head, and pulled himself to his feet.

Ivan went over to the corner of the car, where the luggage sat, and began to rummage. It didn't take long for him to produce the slate uniform with the sheen that Toris had stuffed him into, wrapped in plastic and carefully folded.

"Here," Ivan said, as he pushed the clothes gently into Ludwig's arms. "Go ahead and change." In a mimic of prior occasions, he smiled and whirled around, clasping his arms behind his back and adding, "I won't look! Promise."

Grabbing the fabric in his hands, it was with motions that felt very mechanical that Ludwig stepped back towards the door of the bathroom, and unfolded the uniform.

Obviously, it was no great task to pull on the pants and the shirts, and fix the buttons, but the other additions were a little harder.

Clasps, belts, medals.

He tried to loop the belts and straps as Toris had showed him, across the breast and around the back, but that had been over a week ago, and lately his memory had been operating at the level of a few days, max.

Like a goldfish.

Oh well. No worries. Ivan, obviously peeking despite his declaration that he would not, saw his fumbling and quickly came to his aid, with sure hands and eager fingers and a bright smile.

It was easier not to worry about things so much, or to get frustrated, knowing that he had Ivan to fall back on if he needed to.

He straightened his back and stared obediently ahead as Ivan tugged the straps in place and pinned on the medals, and when everything was in its proper place, Ivan reached out to brush down his shoulders and place the cap neatly upon his head.

He wasn't Ludwig anymore. Now he was Colonel Müller.

In appearance rather than spirit, at least, because even though he liked the way the uniform looked, he still didn't really _feel _much like a colonel.

Lack of confidence.

Well, no worries about that either. Ivan had confidence enough to float the entire Soviet Union.

"There," he suddenly said, as he straightened medals upon Ludwig's breast and gave him one last look over, "That's perfect! Don't touch it."

He obeyed, perhaps a little too literally (refusing to give in and reach up to merely scratch an itch beneath his collar), and stood as rigid as a board, keeping mindful of his arms as Ivan turned around to prim and preen himself.

The first stirrings of nervousness.

First time in Moscow, and in such a flashy uniform.

What a change from the isolated wilderness.

Then, fretting, the time seemed to fly, and he barely realized that an hour or so had passed, as he stood there tapping his foot and too afraid to sit or move for fear he would jostle his uniform out of its pristine condition, until he looked up, and saw movement.

Moscow.

First houses, and then increasingly congested streets, and then grand buildings that loomed on the skyline, more people than he could have ever imagined, and he stared out of the window as Ivan smoothed back his hair and picked lint from his clothing with dutiful fingers.

The first lurching of the train as it slowed down turned his nervousness into full-blown anxiety.

Knowing he would have to step out dressed like _this _and walk down Moscow streets was almost too much to fathom. Especially at glossy Ivan's side, a Russian amongst Russians.

Lurching.

Wheels grinding the tracks.

A buzzing rose steadily above what had once been a tranquil silence, and even as it crashed upon them louder and louder, a swarm of bees attacking, Ludwig could see the curling of Ivan's lip and the prim sneer of disdain as his brow fell lower.

Anxiety turned into foreboding.

Ivan hated Moscow. Who could foresee what would happen in their duration here? Tread lightly. Keep quiet. Obey without hesitation.

And, above all, keep a careful eye on Ivan's moods, and act accordingly.

Suddenly, he wasn't so excited about being in a vast, explore-able city.

Just seeing the crinkle of Ivan's nose was enough to set that off that damn silent alarm in the back of his mind. The lack of aggravating factors on the silent train was not going to be there anymore to provide a barrier; just loud people and crowded streets and irritation all around.

Great.

With one final, drawn-out shriek, the train fell still, and Ivan lifted up his shoulders, and then his chin.

"Well!" he began, as Ludwig fidgeted in anxiety, "Let's get this over with."

The door was pulled open from outside, cold air blasting in as the attendant saluted from below, and with a deep inhale of ill-temper, Ivan took the first step down, and Ludwig stayed hot on heels, if only for fear of being lost in the thick and unyielding crowd.

And immediately, Ludwig understood why Ivan hated Moscow.

The station was full of people. Noisy and crowded and drab and dreary, the grey sky threatening to burst above, and it seemed a world apart from the quiet, isolated, icy town that they'd come from. Every step was like shoving through a thick forest. People just wouldn't _move_.

Everybody shoved and pushed and cast foul looks. The city itself didn't seem particularly friendly. Just cold, damp, and miserable.

At least Siberia was _quiet_.

Ahead of him, Ivan was using his tall stature and broad shoulders for all they were worth, stretching his back and walking almost on his toes to make himself as imposing as possible.

Ha. As if Ivan needed to try hard for _that_.

Most of the people, upon seeing Ivan's glossy uniform and serious face, quickly leapt to the side and out of his path, and if they hadn't, Ludwig had a feeling that they would have gotten trampled on. Ivan didn't even slow down, and made no effort to go around anyone.

Ludwig found small comfort (if comfort was a good word) in the fact that no one was sending them second looks. A quick glance, the sight of the uniforms, and the men sped off silently and the old women covered their faces with their shawls and bowed their heads.

Every so often, Ivan would take his eyes off his path and glance over his shoulder to make sure that Ludwig hadn't been swept away in the tide of the crowd.

He tried to stay close, even if Ivan's furious pace was hard to match.

He wanted to ask, 'where are we going?' but he didn't dare open his mouth and utter German in the midst of all these bustling Russians, for fear of being eyed and cursed at.

And he didn't even want to think of the repercussions if some poor soul had uttered something under their breath in earshot of Ivan.

A disaster best left avoided.

The pushed their way out of the station and into the streets, where the sound of passing cars and honking taxis and people shouting grated his ears mercilessly, and Ivan tilted his head to the side, looking for a moment as he were seconds away from coming up with a good reason to turn on his heel and flee back into the quiet of the train.

Ivan fled from nothing, and in the end, he heaved a sigh, and trudged forward.

Ludwig followed, without a word.

As they passed a crosswalk and Ivan kept his gaze straight ahead and his face impassive, a slight inconvenience; when they reached the other side of the street, two street-vendors, pushing their cart along, were so startled as a general approached that one of them stumbled and tipped the cart clean over.

Vegetables tumbled out in a pool, and Ivan stopped in his tracks, and Ludwig fell completely still, feeling his heart already racing.

A short silence.

And then, as the vendors stared over their shoulders at Ivan in obvious horror, Ivan raised his hand in the air, furrowed his brow, and started shouting.

A scramble to gather the goods. Even though Ludwig could not understand the words that Ivan was saying, the tone of voice and look on his face made the message very, very clear :

'Get all this shit out of my way.'

They did, and parted quickly, without a word.

Probably there was an 'or else' left unsaid at the end.

Ivan only said things once. A repeat was unnecessary.

Path clear, Ivan lowered his hand and shook his head, and walked on.

Catastrophe averted. A bit of luck.

He could understand as well why Toris had seemed so twitchy and alarmed about this whole journey. No doubt it was a little frightening to accompany Ivan to the place that he hated the most and walk the fine line of patience and sanity.

Without thinking, he reached down and patted his pockets.

Rock, safe. So far, so good.

As long as Ivan's gun stayed firmly in its holster, everything should be alright.

A dull gleam ahead drew up his eyes, and he saw a car parked in the street, its black paint as shined and glossed as Ivan's uniform, and he didn't really have to guess; he knew this was their ride. The driver leaping out to yank open the door in a very stiff manner only made it all the more obvious, but he was far too preoccupied with watching the rather persistent twitching of Ivan's eye.

When they were both nestled inside and the door was shut, the sounds of the street muffled a little, Ivan sank back into the seat, crossed his arms above his chest, and muttered, irritably, "Shitty place, isn't it?"

Ludwig, shifting a bit in his seat, only gave a short, "Hm."

Ivan carried on quite easily without his input, as it turned out, and added, "I only come here when I have to, understand, I hate it here so much."

Ivan turned his eyes up, and for a moment, his irritated grimace faded into a strange half-smile.

"Well," he finally amended, when Ludwig stayed silent, "It's a little better with you here."

He smiled, as much as he could for the unease.

Moscow was unsettling, and so were the dangers it held.

Unpredictability.

He sat there, hands wringing subconsciously in his lap as Ivan turned lazy eyes to the window and watched the congested streets fly by with a curled lip, and the uniform was starting to itch a little. He didn't raise his hand to scratch at it, and kept his neck painfully straight so as not to tilt his hat.

Thankfully, the drive to wherever they were going was not exceedingly long, and Ivan's foot had barely began to tap by the time they reached their destination.

The car pulled to a stop.

Ivan leapt out quickly, before the driver could even step out, and this time the agitation was gone, replaced by eagerness and maybe even a little glee.

Not necessarily a good thing.

It didn't take him long to realize, as Ivan extended a hand in courtesy to pull him out, that they were on the edge of the city, the tall buildings looming out far in the distance.

Here, there was a vast, muddy field, and a high wall of thick barbed wire. Guard towers. The gleam of sniper scopes as they caught the pale sun in their sweeping observations.

If he hadn't been petrified into complete stillness, he might have shuddered.

Ivan, however, seemed thoroughly unfazed by the rather alarming scenery, and maybe even he _liked _it, and it was with a wide smile and a high chin that he started walking towards the great, guarded gate, and Ludwig was forced from immobility to follow.

Before they neared, Ivan slowed his pace, and whispered, "Beside me, not behind. You're a colonel, not a foot soldier."

A spark of adrenaline lit him up, and he forced his shined boots through the mud to try and match Ivan's long strides, falling in beside of him with a little effort.

His heart was pounding so fiercely he was afraid he'd fall over right in the dirt.

The guards, still at a distance, saluted, and the gate began to creak open. Looked more like the gates of hell.

Ivan, looking straight ahead and without leaning in, uttered quiet advice as they approached.

"Head up."

He straightened his back, trying to call back the memories of how Toris had instructed him to conduct himself so long ago.

_Pretend you've got a board stuck down your pants._

Right.

It had been a little easier in the comfort of the house, when a slip-up only earned him a quick slap from Toris' gentle hands. A slip-up here might earn him a bullet in the head.

He walked as closely to Ivan as he dared, and tried to stifle his nausea.

Ivan was smiling away.

"Put a hand behind your back, like me. So they think you don't give a shit."

Glancing over, Ludwig observed Ivan's posture, the carefree and superior gait and air of authority, and tried to emulate.

But even when he held up his chin and placed a hand at the small of his back and loosened his shoulders, he still felt vulnerable, and a little ridiculous.

Imposter.

"And don't smile."

Well, _that _one wasn't a problem.

They approached the gate, he had one last chance to pull on the mask of belonging and a stance of mightier-than-thou, hiding his tremor the whole while, and then they stood before entrance.

A well-dressed soldier of some sort came forward, and broke into a great beam, reaching out and clapping Ivan on the shoulders with heavy hands. Words were exchanged, greetings and pleasantries.

He kept himself straight and tall, brow low and lips pursed, and could only pray that he was not letting Ivan down.

Ivan directed the man over, and as Ludwig's heart thudded all over again, he still reacted quick enough to reach out and take the offered hand. He gave a smile that he tried to make as snide and condescending as possible (but it was probably just as non-threatening as Toris himself) and made sure the handshake was firm.

Ivan was beaming.

He only nodded his head as the man spoke, and kept his mouth shut, although he was fairly certain that Ivan had introduced him as a colonel from the GDR, maybe just popping in for an observational visit, or maybe a transfer.

Even so.

The soldier finally released his hand and then turned around, waving his hands around emphatically as he blabbered away in Russian, apparently acting as a tour guide, and the second the eyes were off him, Ludwig could not repress the great exhale and the swallow of nervousness.

Ivan reached out, and slapped his back.

"Very good."

The words, although quick and quiet, were enough to boost his confidence, and he felt himself calming down, just a little.

He might be able to make it through this yet.

As they walked behind the gesturing soldier, Ivan glanced over at him, and sent him a leer.

"You look very handsome in that uniform, did I tell you?"

He managed a low, weak, "Thank you."

Because compliments, in Ivan's world, should always be acknowledged politely. And very quickly.

As they walked, he felt a little more at ease, and his shoulders were steadily loosening without him really realizing it.

This wasn't so bad! Ha. Maybe he'd been overreacting a little. Feeding off of Toris' fear. Toris worried too much. That was all.

This wasn't all that hard, not really, and as long as he stayed beside of Ivan and acted like he knew everything, then it wasn't so bad. The soldiers that they passed fell into place and gave rigid salutes like they did every commanding officer, and life within the encampment carried on as it normally did.

No one knew he wasn't who he pretended to be. Everything was smooth.

He relaxed, anxiety waning down into something like restlessness, and let himself look around to gather a sense of his surroundings.

Behind the impenetrable fortress of steel beams and barbed wire and guard dogs that lied out in the front, imposing and safe from prying eyes, there was a vast clearing that stretched back probably for a mile or so, although view of it was obscured by small buildings and tents that jutted up against the horizon.

A faint whirring of machinery beyond.

The soldier leading them forward continued to speak aloud to Ivan, who nodded his head at intervals, and Ludwig could only try to imagine what exactly was in store for him within this camp.

He didn't need to wonder for long.

They rounded the corner of a heavily-plated building, and the field beyond became visible.

And immediately, he froze still like a deer, overwhelmed.

His foot hung in midair.

Awed.

Because behind that building and standing in that field were men; hundreds of them. The Soviet Army stood before him, rows and rows of them, standing at perfect attention and rifles perched neatly upon their shoulders, their uniforms immaculate and faces completely serious.

Impressing the general.

However, even though _he _was frozen in place, Ivan did not seem particularly impressed, and barely spared the soldiers a glance before turning his attention to the man who had led him there, as they saluted and then parted ways.

Now it was just him and Ivan, standing before the army.

The _army_.

His first coherent thought was a simple, 'oh shit.'

Scary as hell, that was for sure, and he had never seen anything like it, not ever. Nothing like this, as they didn't even twitch, as far back as the eye could see, olive uniforms a dull gleam against the fog and mud and grey skies, casting shadows back as tall as the trees, and ready to make war at a mere snap of Ivan's fingers.

Unsurprisingly, Ivan only observed them once with a critical eye, raised his brow, and then turned back to Ludwig with an airy twirl.

To Ivan, this was nothing. Boring. Ivan had stood in front of the army for nearly his entire life, waking up in the morning to sounds of guns and machinery and seeing trained killers in uniform practicing in the yard.

Just business as usual.

He jumped in alarm when Ivan suddenly stepped forward and leaned in next to him, close to his ear and whispering, "Impressive, aren't they? This is only a small platoon. This is the one going to Odessa." A hand on his shoulder, as Ivan pointed to the distance. "See the tanks back there? I'll let you go see them in a minute."

Craning up his neck, he looked over, and saw the iron vehicles sitting behind the men, and he realized now what that mechanical whirring had been; atop the tank, a great gun swung back and forth, scoping and focusing.

A shiver of thrill.

He'd seen tanks in books and on the television, and he knew damn well the logistics and the fact that better tanks made better war, but he'd never seen one up close and personal.

It didn't seem very real. Maybe he was locked in a closet somewhere. A figment of his imagination.

It was exceedingly surreal. Never in even his wildest dreams had he ever imagined he would one day be dressed in the sleek uniform of a Soviet colonel, standing before armed soldiers and tanks and next to a general.

His heart was thudding all over again, and it was with stiff shoulders and a painfully straight spine that he lifted his chin and sucked in a great breath to steady himself, arms still tucked behind his back.

Ivan only smiled down at him, his grin bordering on a leer.

"Nervous?"

He was, of course he was, but he shook his head anyway, and tried to scoff.

He would not admit faults in front of Ivan, when Ivan didn't expect him to have any. Ivan demanded perfection. He tangled his hands into the fabric of his uniform so as to steady them, and tried to keep his face as impassive as he could.

Ivan knew damn well what he was feeling, Ivan _always _knew, but he humored him anyway and turned his eyes back to the waiting men, and Ludwig barely kept from jumping in alarm when Ivan began to speak.

But not to him.

Voice rising over the background noises and the engines, Ivan addressed the statuesque soldiers, pacing slowly back and forth as he waved an emphatic hand in the air, voice steady and sure as he gave a speech in Russian, and Ludwig had no doubt that he was giving very specific instructions on how this operation was to be conducted.

No prisoners. No survivors. Ivan's voice held no tremor. No remorse. No call for sympathy.

Shaking his head in a quick twitch to clear it, Ludwig tried to push the squirm of unease away, and focus on something else.

What happened in Odessa was not for him to say. If Ivan was telling them to raze a town to the ground or shoot fleeing men in the back, then there wasn't anything he could do about it. And besides, it wasn't like he was going to _see _it.

He wouldn't see it.

Toris had taught him up in _that _room that not looking meant it wasn't real. Even if it was happening right in front of him. If he turned his head, and averted his eyes, then all was well. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just Ivan's work.

Even though he shouldn't have been looking, because Toris had told him not to, he couldn't help it; to see the Soviet Army there, the most powerful in the world, the most _dangerous_, and yet they stood still and absolutely submissive before Ivan, absorbing every word he uttered and ready to offer their lives, should Ivan ask.

Fascinating.

Ivan, it seemed, was saying a _lot_; he was still pacing back and forth before the still soldiers, voice rising and falling in various pitches and tones, stressing important phrases and muttering others, and Ludwig was quite content to listen to the smooth words he didn't understand until Ivan suddenly looked over his shoulder and met his eyes.

A rush of panic. Ivan had introduced him, perhaps.

A thought that surely wasn't far off, for when Ivan suddenly raised a casual hand in the air, as though swatting a fly, the soldiers loosened up and fell at ease, and turned to look at him.

Low chatter. Curious gazes. Ivan was watching him expectantly.

Keep cool.

The only thing he could think of to do was to lift his chin and narrow his eyes, sending the staring soldiers the same look of annoyance and iciness that he had sent to _him _when he'd been falling over drunk on the floor.

..._him_?

That damn name just wouldn't come to him, no matter how hard he tried to drag it up from the depths. Oh well.

That wasn't important anyhow, not right now, not when Ivan had come back over to his side, standing at rigid attention beside of him as he tried to deter the men from staring at him.

He must have been doing a good job of holding composure.

"Look at you!" Ivan breathed at his side, bristling. "I think this is where you were meant to be. See, how well things are working out for us? You're everything I ever looked for. How well you fit in here! You're a natural. What a general you would make. Just the way you stand. I can tell."

Words of praise. What? Just for this? Just for standing?

He dared himself to break stillness, and looked over.

His heart started up its mad dash. Ivan was beaming at him, chest puffed and shoulders braced; like he had brought the best of the best to the show.

Was Ivan _proud _of him? What a thought!

"Come on," Ivan said, inclining his head, and it was obvious that it took every shred of restraint within him to keep from reaching out and snatching Ludwig's hand. The staring soldiers were no doubt a good enabler. "Let's go down! Get you up on a tank! You'll like it. Have you ever held a rocket launcher?"

A—a _what_?

Ivan's excitement was channeled through his high, thin voice as he sped along, so eager that he almost left Ludwig completely behind with his long strides.

His own eagerness, however, prevented him from lagging.

He couldn't remember moving this quickly in all the time he'd been out here (how long _had_ he been out here?—ah, fuck it, who cared?), and it was a little dizzying to hustle along through parting soldiers, some of whom leapt back from Ivan so fervently that they nearly toppled backward.

None of them spoke as they passed.

But even through his exhilaration, he did not miss the looks that some of the soldiers sent him, once Ivan had safely passed.

Crinkled noses and visible canines; grimaces of distaste. Sneers of hatred. That old word of 'GDR' could still cause such strife. He wasn't welcome here.

And he couldn't really reconcile _those _looks with Ivan's constant declarations that this was exactly where he belonged.

One or the other. It couldn't be _both_.

If this had been only months earlier, he would have been able to form a very rational essay in his head, explaining in very merciless detail the contradictions of everything Ivan had ever said, to pinpoint every lie and every deliberately misleading word, to observe and recognize every little inconsistency, and in doing so be able to convince himself that this was _not _where he belonged—

Tank.

All thought fled. The last of the soldiers parted, and there before him, tracks sinking into the mud, was a tank.

A tank.

Well! Well...

Months ago, maybe. Right now was right now, and there was a tank standing right in front of him, and Ivan was standing beside of him, and he couldn't even remember what he'd eaten on the train the day before, let alone piece together a report on Ivan's sincerity.

Without realizing it, his heels stuck back in the soft, cold earth, and he stopped dead. Ivan stopped too, and whirled around, hands tucked again behind his back and absolutely beaming.

The sun may as well have come out, for that look. Suddenly, the cold air and damp mud and unfriendly soldiers didn't really bother him all that much.

He didn't realize that Ivan was close enough to the tank to actually touch it until he lifted his hand, and then threw an arm back, gloved palm patting the freezing steel cheerily.

"Neat, huh? Come here. Don't you want to get on top of it?"

He opened his mouth, couldn't find his voice, and merely stood still, as much like a deer as he had ever accused Toris of being.

He could have gladly stood there for quite a while longer, if the soldiers hadn't been staring at him, but it was _not _a good thing for a colonel of the Soviet Army, GDR or no, to be gawking up at a tank like a little kid seeing Neuschwanstein castle for the first time.

So, he stifled the thrill, shut his open mouth, squared up his shoulders, tucked his arms behind his back, lifted up his chin, and only huffed, as primly as he could, "Hm!"

If he could speak Russian, he might have turned to the soldiers and said, 'Well! German tanks are better.'

Ivan, smiling in a rather wolfish manner, turned to his men and muttered something lowly in Russian. He could only hope it was something along the lines of, 'Colonel Müller is not impressed.'

Even though he _was_.

At Ivan's words, there was a sudden bustle; the soldiers who weren't staring at him like he had just crawled out of a sewer came forward, in slow, careful movements, and gathered around him.

He realized with a lurch of anxiety that Ivan had something more like, 'Give him a tour.'

Oh, damn. Well, like so much else out here, better just to go along with it.

The soldiers blabbered away, not seeming to care that he couldn't understand them, and some of them appeared a little more eager than others, gawking at him as he had gawked at the tank.

A German where he shouldn't be.

It was a little comforting to know that some of them saw this as an interesting event that called for curiosity and observation, rather than annoyance and aggression. Not all Russians, it seemed, automatically hated Germans just because they were expected to.

...maybe he'd been a little prejudiced himself.

Alright. Maybe a _lot_. Ha. Hadn't he always fed off of the hatred of others and saw them all as merely 'Reds', to be feared and mistrustful of? Communists and heartless and cruel.

Look at him now! Standing amongst soldiers of the Soviet Army, a supposed newcomer from the GDR, and he had befriended Irina and taken the Russian dictionary and had tried to study the language, forgoing his Western heritage to live in Siberia (the exact memory of that decision was a little fuzzy, but there it was).

A German with Russians. Enemies. Ivan didn't really seem to notice the problem. So he shouldn't either.

Any doubts from earlier were quickly cast aside as one of the soldiers reached out with a loud voice and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder (only to wrench it quickly back as though he were going to be reprimanded), and he felt himself relaxing.

Could be worse.

Kinda neat, at any rate, to be mostly in charge of things, imposter or no. And besides, Ivan was off to the side, keeping a sharp eye on things to make sure that nothing went wrong, and that the soldiers who had sneered at him were kept firmly in place.

Before he knew it, he was being led to the tank, eager, rapid voices floating through his head like white noise.

The feel of freezing steel beneath his thin gloves. Climbing up.

Suddenly the entire camp was visible, the great forest behind spreading on for eternity, and he wobbled a little as he tried to gather up his shoddy balance and nod to the pointing soldiers at the same time. It only took a second after he had found his footing atop the tank for him to break into a wide smile that showed his teeth, even as the cold wind howled.

Oh, _damn_! Was _this _a feeling!

Excitement.

When was the last he'd felt _that_?

Ivan just stood there below and watched him, hands tucked in his pockets and looking for all the world like he'd just gotten a brand new puppy and was watching it run around the room; a little adoration, a little bemusement, a little possessiveness, and a little glee.

For once, Ludwig couldn't really think of a reason to feel _down_.

Not while he was standing up there on top of the tank, not as the men hovered around him with smiles and eager hands, thinking he was their superior and wanting to impress, not as he came into contact with things he had no business being near, and certainly not when the men opened up the hatch, and pointed downward.

An invitation to leap inside.

He would have, immediately, as enthralled as he was, but even now he found himself freezing still and looking down at Ivan in a silent search for permission.

Ivan only smiled, and gave an almost imperceptible twitch of his head. Approval.

Ludwig didn't waste any time. Exhilaration was leading his actions now.

Grabbing the ladder, his hands steady and strong, he slid down, and even though there was a language barrier, exaggerated motions and big grins and laughter were effective ways to communicate, and Ludwig only nodded his head every time one of them patted his arm and showed him something new.

He didn't understand the machine, not by any means, but he sure as hell pretended he did, and just to be able to touch and feel the inside of a tank, civilian that he really was, was more than anything he could have ever really anticipated.

He hadn't known it would be this, well...

This _amazing_, for lack of a better word.

Machinery had always been something of a fascination, from the sidelines, so to be able to be inside of a war-machine was something akin to Christmas. He didn't necessarily condone _using _it, not really, but there was no denying it was impressive.

The cannon on top was pretty much like icing on the cake. Grabbing the control and actually making it move back and forth, the whirring of the machine music to his ears, was almost as good as seeing those papers had been.

By the time he climbed out, head poking back out into the cold, arms folded over and staring out over the field (_his _field), he was smiling, and he knew.

He liked all of this. Military. It was exciting. Maybe he should have hated himself for it.

But he _liked _it.

Being here on the field before the rows and rows of organized, disciplined soldiers, and to command them like he was really _one _of them (and to know that they thought he _was_!) was absolutely exhilarating. No other word for it.

Down below, Ivan was smiling at him, arms crossed and feet spread in comfortable confidence, and it felt _good_ to be in the center of Ivan's attention.

Ivan's eyes met his own.

Still smiling like an idiot, he sucked in a breath and hauled himself back onto the top of the tank, waiting rather impatiently for the next demonstration.

It didn't take long.

He was led here and there, shown this and that, and the whole time Ivan just stood back and watched over him, making no effort to command or intervene as the soldiers shoved weapon after Soviet weapon into his hands, no doubt thinking that they were convincing him that Russian guns were better than German guns.

For all he knew, guns were guns, and he wasn't going to do anything to put himself in the spotlight, so he just nodded his head and acted like he knew his way around the weapons, even as they felt far too heavy in his hands.

The hours zoomed by, and by the time the sun was up high at noon, he was alert and awake and feeling more involved in the world than he had in months.

By Ivan's good grace.

It was Ivan, after all, that had brought him out here and allowed him to interact, and none of it had been tumultuous or frightening enough to warrant Toris' dumb little rock. As long as he did what Ivan wanted, everything was fine. Just fine.

Toris worried too much. Nothing to fear out here. The contrary! Those dark lapses of _something _were, perhaps, a fair price to pay just to have Ivan looking so proud. Proud of _him_.

He could have carried on with this until nightfall, being in the middle of everything and feeling a little sense of control, but finally Ivan stepped forward, and twitched his head.

A call to return. He obeyed.

Making a beeline for Ivan, he fell into his side and tucked his arms behind his back in a mimic of the tall general, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin as the soldiers fell back into rank and formation.

Time to go, no doubt.

Ivan muttered, under his breath, "Have fun? They'll be talking about this for a while."

He couldn't help the puffing of his chest. Let them talk. Sure thing. He liked the look and feel of this newfound position, and it was a rush to think that others would be talking about him long after he was gone.

Who had he been back in _that place_?

Nobody. No one had ever listened to him. No one had ever stood still and paid attention when he spoke. No one had looked to him as a commander or superior. No one remembered him once he had left.

No one thought about him after he'd gone.

This was different. It was intoxicating.

Hell, maybe this was where he had always belonged all along; on the battlefield. In the military.

Had Ivan been able to sense something within him that he himself had never even known was there? Perhaps so, and that was why he had brought him here in the first place when he could have easily gone on alone. The great tanks sitting there, the guns upon them swinging to and fro as the men practiced, the smell of machinery and gunpowder and the feel of the metal in his hands, and best of all Ivan's unshakeable smile...

Home.

He focused his attention on his hands; still steady.

He didn't jump when Ivan suddenly started speaking again, not even a twitch, and stood there with a smile, considering that this was possibly the most exciting day of his life.

Thrills of excitement and the feeling of belonging.

Ivan finished quickly, and smiled over at him.

A quiet whisper.

"Anything you'd like to say to them, colonel?"

Say to them?

Maybe he was feeling a little confident here, but he wasn't ready for _that_. What would he say? The thought alone was mortifying; he'd fumble, for sure, and come off sounding like an idiot to those few soldiers that might have understood a little German.

Risking being a little bit of a disappointment, he finally shook his head, and said, easily, "No, general."

Ivan's smile never wavered, and he only raised his brow. "Well, then. Let's go."

Ivan was patient with him. Ivan loved him.

That was enough.

Without another word, Ivan turned on his heel, trudging through the mud back towards the great gate at the front of the field, and Ludwig followed him, struggling to match the quick pace.

The soldiers were left behind.

As soon as the fence was reached and the gate began to creak open, Ludwig reached into his pocket, and made a decision. Grabbing up Toris' gift, he brought it out into the open, and with a flick of his wrist tossed it out into the mud and grass.

He didn't need it. Simple as that.

Ivan was all the protection he needed, and when they were back inside the glossed car, it was all he could do to keep his composure and sit perfectly still.

Had the driver been blocked from view, he might have collapsed back into the seat and grabbed Ivan's hand, or at the very least tossed a clenched fist of enthusiasm into the air like one of his old friends used to.

Couldn't really seem to think of his name at the moment, but who cared?

He was floating, and Ivan seemed even more comfortable than usual, arms behind his head and staring lazily out of the window as the car rolled along. He quickly realized that they were returning to Moscow.

So. The troops were about to roll out and right over Odessa, and so what was there really left for them to do here? If he'd been a little braver, he would have asked to go on a tour.

Sightseeing would be welcome after so many weeks in the desolation of the diamond town.

Turning his attention to the window to stare up at the buildings, mostly dilapidated apartments that reached the sky, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe Irina would like to get out, one of these days, and come into the city.

Did Ivan ever take her on these outings? He doubted it, as protective of her as he was.

When they got back, he'd try his best to convince Ivan to let Irina tag along the next time they went out somewhere. And they _had _to go out again. This feeling was too good to let go of.

Minutes of silence.

Finally, he gathered up the courage to ask, quietly, "Where are we going?"

"To the hotel," came the simple response, and when he looked over his shoulder at Ivan, the raised brow of knowing was apparent. "What?" Ivan continued, airily, "You thought I would bring you all the way out here and then not let you look around? Ha! For ten days on the train, we should at least stay two weeks, right?"

A moment of immobility, and then he found his voice, and said, as the smile spread across his face, "Right."

So, he'd get to look around after all.

Ivan had read his mind. Well, that wasn't surprising.

Seeing Ludwig grabbing a hold of the windowsill and peering upwards through the glass, Ivan finally shifted his weight a bit, and started to fidget, as though struggling with something.

After minutes of shifting, Ivan asked, sounding a bit beleaguered, "Would you like to just walk to the hotel? It isn't far."

Immediately, Ludwig understood Ivan's reluctance.

It must have been a struggle to willingly offer a trek through Moscow's roads when Ivan seemed to have done nearly everything humanly possible to never see Moscow again unless absolutely necessary.

Ivan, sacrificing comfort and convenience just to make him happy, if only for a moment.

Ivan loved him.

He wasn't really sure of many things anymore. He wasn't really sure where any of this would go. He wasn't exactly sure of what he'd been planning on doing before all of this. He knew that there were things beyond the borders of Russia, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever see them again, and if so, he wasn't sure that it would even matter.

But Ivan _loved _him. Of that, he was sure.

"Okay."

A wave of Ivan's hand, and the car stopped. He could hear Ivan's belated sigh, and then the click of the door. Quick movements, and his own door was held open, as Ivan looked back and forth over the streets with a grimace.

For a moment, Ludwig reconsidered. Sure, he'd love to walk around, but there was that old problem now; the matter of any outside agitations grating on Ivan's nerves.

Too late. He could feel his legs swinging out, and heavy boots hit the damp, cold street.

"Come on," Ivan said, as he began to amble off into the passing pedestrians, "It's this way."

The nervous stirrings of being on the line of Ivan's patience, although they no doubt should have been his first concern, were steadily giving way to some more of that addicting rush of being more than he really was.

As he walked at Ivan's side, people parted and dodged and some of them even went all the way to the other side of the street to avoid stepping in their path. None of these people would have ever gotten out of his way if he'd been on his own. He'd have just been jostled and pushed and shoved like everyone else. No respect. No second glances. No care.

Things were different now. He was somebody now.

Colonel Müller.

With every passing second, he found Toris' fretting more and more asinine. Poor little Toris, worrying over nothing and getting riled up over passing shadows. Nothing wrong out here, besides the damp air and the foul gutters and the less-than-friendly people.

There weren't any ghosts of dark moments or voices whispering in his ear. Too noisy here to hear whispers anyway.

Actually, all things considered, he felt pretty good.

To think he'd ever roamed the streets back in _that place _and let people push him around for so long. That wasn't a problem out here. The gun strapped to his waist, locked in its holster, was as big a confidence booster as Ivan's presence.

Ludwig was floating. Walking on the clouds Ivan had placed beneath his feet.

After barely ten minutes, Ivan suddenly pointed up to a building, damp stone shining in the sun that burst through the clouds, and said, "That's it!"

Certainly in a much better state than the crumbling buildings on either side of it, obviously well-tended and cleaned on a daily basis. Safe looking, and elegant.

"Pretty, right? Best hotel in Moscow! Modeled after the French. Well, I suppose that's a good thing! In Moscow, sometimes buildings blow up just because."

And from the look on Ivan's face, that was not a joke.

Right.

The gleaming columns that framed the door were visible.

Before they could approach, an interruption.

"_General_!" came a sudden voice from the side, and Ludwig turned to look over his shoulder as a man came striding towards Ivan from the other side of the street, and God, he looked _so _familiar! It struck him instantly that he knew the man coming towards them.

From where? Who was he? No matter how hard he tried, Ludwig realized that he couldn't think. Blank after blank.

Reaching their side, the man came to an abrupt halt before Ivan, and saluted with a strange smile, clicking his boots together and sending Ludwig a quick glance as he did so. Ivan's tense face of agitation melted into one of ease and fondness, and the smile that spread over his face was a good sign.

Ludwig relaxed, and tried to keep up the act of superiority by appearing untouchable and aloof.

The familiar man was in uniform too, but of a rank he did not recognize. He could only pray that it was a lower rank than colonel, otherwise he might have looked a fool (or worse, a dissident) for not showing the same respect the officer had shown Ivan.

A conversation in Russian, and Ivan broke the formality and reached out to shake the man's hand, but it became obvious that the man only had eyes for him, looking over at him in very frequent intervals with an eye of scrutiny and curiosity. He just stood there silently, awkwardly, and tried to put a name and place to the face.

He _knew _this man. The frustration of not being able to really remember was nagging him.

Rough-looking and smelling of cigars even from a distance, silver ushanka gleaming and looking both confident and somehow defeated. Scruffy and short and stocky.

Where had he been seen?

Ivan blabbered away, his tongue quick and smooth and silvery in his native language, still clasping the man's hand within both of his own and jolting it up and down every minute or so in what was clearly excitement. Like a little kid.

The officer only smiled back, and joined in the conversation. But he still glanced over at Ludwig, as if trying to communicate with only eye contact.

Not understanding and feeling a little agitated, Ludwig finally averted his eyes off into the distance, and stood as still as a statue.

Ivan's meeting. Not his.

The short conversation finally ended, and a farewell was given with kisses on either cheek. The officer had to stand up on the tips of his toes just to reach Ivan, who towered above.

Goodbye.

Before he left, the man stopped short and turned back to Ludwig, muttering something under his breath as he saluted him, and Ludwig saluted back in that automatic response that had become a habit. And even though he knew that he _knew _him, he still could not place his face nor think of his name.

Footsteps thudding down the street.

Ivan waved in a final moment of exuberance, and then fell back into the collected air of authority that Ludwig was used to. The officer was gone, lost in the crowd. Taking all familiarity with him.

Oh well. What were the chances of seeing him again, anyway?

In all honesty, he didn't really care enough to ask Ivan about it, either. Maybe Ivan thought he could remember on his own, for he suddenly leaned down and said, "He's here to lead the troops to Kiev. I gave him that operation. He's never let me down before."

All Ludwig responded with was a simple, "Hm!" If all else fails, just play along.

Who cared who that man was, anyway?

Not Ivan? Not his concern.

Not Toris? Not interested.

Not Irina? Not worth his time.

Not Raivis? Not an involvement for him.

Those were the only four names that really mattered anymore. The only four he ever saw. The only ones who occupied the same house. His new family.

Ivan, the shining sun in the middle, the domineering force and the source of all, and the spinning satellites.

Toris, the Earth. The grounding force and the link to outside worlds and the sign of life outside of Siberian snow. Coming and going and bringing items and news with him.

Irina, the Moon. Controlling the tides of Ivan's moods and emotions, keeping watch from a distance and holding everything together.

And Raivis, a little asteroid. A little out of place, a little strange, a little zippy, but adding variety and a different feeling of life into the quiet house of stone.

They fit together well.

And him? _He _wasn't a satellite. He was a star; Ivan had proved that by his words and actions. He was the only one Ivan had brought out here. He was the only one that stepped foot into Ivan's room. He was the only one that Ivan really smiled at. He was the only one that Ivan whispered to in the night.

So, if it wasn't Ivan or the others, he just didn't care. He stayed silent, and didn't ask.

Nothing could bring him down, even fuzzy memories. Not propped up like he was upon Ivan's shoulders.

Colonel.

To think he had been so sick of this uniform before, because some people he had once known would have thought badly of him for it.

...some people.

Yeah, that was right. Just some people.

Couldn't even remember their names.

They might have been mad at him, but he was the one, not them, who had stood up on the tank and above the army. What could they say for themselves? What had they accomplished?

The most powerful country in the world at his fingertips.

Thrilled and pumped with adrenaline and struggling to keep a straight face at the giddiness that threatened to come, he let his composure slide only when they stepped into the hotel and into the elevator, saving face and dignity if only to uphold Ivan's honor and imposing air.

As soon as the elevator doors shut, he exhaled a great lungful of air and broke into a breathless smile, and without even thinking he reached out and took Ivan's hand within his own. He could hardly keep from twitching in excitement.

Ivan, leaping upon the opportunity, whirled around and pushed him back against the elevator wall, and quickly and harshly claimed one of his poker winnings, his hands gripping Ludwig's upper arms so forcefully that bruises were only inevitable. For all of his coolness, it was obvious that Ivan was just as excited as he was.

Plinky piano music wafted inside, almost humorously pale and bland in comparison to the exceedingly heated way Ivan was shoving his tongue down his throat.

Hardly a minute of Ivan's hands raising from his arms up to cup his neck and practically lift him up off his feet, and then the elevator lurched up, and then fell still.

A 'ding'.

When the door opened, they were standing perfectly straight and composed, not a hair out of place or an item of clothing disheveled. Strolling out, all business. Maybe his cheeks were a little red. Even so, he held up his head and kept his shoulders squared when they stepped through the halls, doing his best to keep stoic as Ivan's brushing up against him threatened to make him crack.

It wasn't really a great surprise that the when they rounded a corner, there was only one door. Another one of those high-end luxury hotels, where there were only two or three rooms per floor.

Well, nothing less than Ivan deserved.

"I haven't been here for a while," Ivan said, casually, as he knelt down and lifted up the mat in front of the door, pulling out a key and raising it up into the light. "I hope they've been cleaning it. It might be a little dusty."

The click of the key in the lock was eerily loud in the quiet, empty hall, and when they stepped inside, the room was cold and the air was a bit stale. The flick of the light, and everything was visible.

The room wasn't as big as he had envisioned. Two beds, a small living room and a smaller kitchen, not a house, but far bigger than the average hotel room. A cozy place, in comparison to the grey, gritty city that lay on the outside.

The carpet and curtains were gold.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, his legs finally gave out, and he fell down into the closest seat, at the kitchen table, and buried in his face in his hands. Ivan only snorted, and began to rummage. His heart was still hammering.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Ivan called back, and for a moment, he was too stunned to answer.

Splitting open his fingers to stare up at the ceiling, he heaved a great sigh, and tried to compose words to describe it. In the end, he found none, and stayed still, leaning back into his chair and tapping his boot on the floor.

Eloquence had never really been his strong point.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

The heater was turned on.

"Hungry?" Ivan asked, as he abandoned the dresser and moved into the kitchen.

"Not really."

He might not have been hungry, and he might not have been able to the find the words to explain how he was feeling, but there was one thing that was present on his mind :

"Are we going to go back out?" he asked, a bit hopefully, but Ivan only shook his head as he poked through the cabinets.

"Not tonight. I think we should celebrate, yeah?"

"Celebrate what?"

Ivan looked back at him, and the leer was obvious.

"How well you did, of course! I never thought you'd look so good out there. I should have known you'd be able to do it right off. Ha! I think you were born for the military, like me."

He opened his mouth, but Ivan came over to the table and sat down with a loud thud before he could speak, and it didn't really surprise Ludwig when he sat down the bottle of vodka upon the table, along with two glasses.

After ten days dry on the train, Ivan was surely going through a little withdrawal, and now didn't seem like a bad time for a drink.

He lowered his arms and scooted his chair forward in a wordless acceptance, eager to keep the feeling of belonging going strong.

Ivan, smiling away, uncapped the bottle and started to pour.

And he didn't stop, not even when noon turned to evening, or when evening turned to night.

The hapless vodka bottle had been replaced earlier by a second. Poor thing hadn't stood a chance. Not against Ivan.

He was getting better. Six glasses down.

With every one of them that was consumed, Ivan's hand became a little more errant, stretching across the table to fall atop his own as they chatted quietly. Ivan did most of the talking, and he usually just nodded his head and smiled.

Every time he looked up, Ivan seemed to be a little closer.

Maybe that was just his mind playing tricks.

Ivan's boot bumped into his own.

Maybe not.

"So," Ivan began, cheeks red and voice beginning to slur as the vodka started to take over, "Tell me! Didn't you like the tank?"

Swaying a little, he managed to perk up, and say, too eagerly, "Yeah! I didn't think it would be so...so—"

"Powerful?"

He nodded, although that hadn't exactly been the word he had been searching for, but it was close enough. Ivan only smiled, visible canines glinting in the dim light of the kitchen.

"You looked good up there on top of it. Did you see how they were so careful? Not to make you angry? They were afraid of you. Didn't it feel good?"

He looked up at Ivan through bleary eyes, and tilted his head.

Good?

"That's control," Ivan whispered, suddenly so close that he could feel his breath hot on his cheek. "That's respect. It felt good, didn't it? To stand up there before them and have them salute you like that? Listening to everything you said. It felt good, didn't it?"

Why deny it? It _had _felt good. God, it had felt _great_.

Still feeling the rush of adrenaline in his veins, he tossed the shot back with a tilt of his head, and when he set it back down on the table, Ivan's heavy eyes upon him only made the adrenaline surge faster.

What had he been back _there_?

Just another young man, unknown and struggling to find his place in the world, buried in stress and never being rewarded for his hard work, watching as the children from wealthy families passed so easily into the grand universities and careers that he had really only ever dreamed about, and feeling so lost in the vast ocean of life.

Suddenly, he was someone here, and standing there and knowing that his words commanded and that he controlled the actions of a military unit—the _Soviet _military, whom the world feared—had been absolutely thrilling.

Even though it was a carefully crafted lie of Ivan's, it didn't matter. _They _hadn't known he wasn't really a colonel, not with that uniform and the meticulous training of Toris and the supreme authority of Ivan. They hadn't known anything was out of place, and they had respected him.

Nothing Gilbert had ever done had given him a rush like that—

Gilbert?

Gilbert.

A bolt of lightening.

Hey! That was his name! The voice that had been nagging at him earlier on the train, whispers of something he couldn't grasp.

Gilbert. He'd almost forgotten. Strange. How could he have forgotten?

He couldn't help himself; he raised his hand up to his mouth, but it didn't get there quick enough to stifle his breathless, cracking laughter. Even through his mounting intoxication, some part of his mind was still able to realize, past the fog, that he didn't recognize his own voice.

Was that _his_ laugh?

Sounded different. A strange, high-pitched giggle.

Then again, he'd never really laughed all that much. He was just over-reading things, and maybe the vodka was laughing for him.

"What?" Ivan finally asked, huskily, when he couldn't really seem to stifle the titters, and he only shook his head.

Dumb Gilbert. Probably passed out in a street somewhere right now, drunk and high and grabbing people's pant-legs as they passed. Gilbert would never be able to wear a uniform like this and have the presence of mind to behave so properly in front of an army. Gilbert would never be able to hold his composure and make Ivan proud.

Not like he had.

Good riddance.

"Oh, come on," Ivan suddenly murmured in his ear, as he placed a heavy hand upon his back, "I know you haven't had _that _much! You drink like Toris."

That was enough to stop his giggling cold.

He didn't know _why _it made the fire in his veins light up like a tanker explosion at being compared to Toris by Ivan.

He was _not _Toris. He would never be Toris. The thought of ever being looked at in comparison to others by Ivan was absolutely horrifying.

He was Ludwig.

Ivan should have seen him as just that, even if he had to prove himself twice as hard.

The thought of anyone else being in Ivan's mind...

After all of this. Everything revolved around Ivan. It hurt, a bit, that maybe Ivan did not revolve completely around _him_. That maybe Ivan did not have _him _running through his mind every second of every day.

In a horrible moment of anxiety and self-consciousness and the desire to prove himself, he furrowed his brow and took up another glass, even as his swimming head and churning stomach said to stop.

He was not Toris.

When Ivan looked him, he should have only seen him as Ludwig. Because he would have done anything for Ivan. Anything at all.

"Slow down," Ivan chided, as he tried to pour himself another and succeeded only in spilling half of it onto the table. A knowing look. "I didn't hurt your feelings did I? I was only playing with you."

As if to prove it, a warm hand reached out to smooth down his unkempt hair, and Ivan's smile widened at his silence.

"Huh? Oh, come on! I was kidding! You're better than Toris at everything. Don't be mad at me."

Just like that, the irritation was gone, as Ivan's fingers ran through his hair. For a second, he even felt a little childish, for having taken such a simple comment so personally.

He was an idiot; taking things out of context. Ivan had given him his name, and so of course when Ivan looked at him, he saw Ludwig.

Right.

His head hurt.

Shaking it in a vague attempt to clear it, he finally lowered his shoulders a little and muttered, "I'm not mad."

Ivan's hand balled into a fist as he bumped his jaw gently.

"Good."

...what had he been thinking again?

He lost his train of thought.

He could only watch with a sloppy smile as Ivan poured the glass without spilling a drop.

"Tomorrow," Ivan said, as he tried to bring the glass to his lips without dropping it, "I might take you out to see the cathedral. Maybe we'll even go down to St. Petersburg. Would you like that?"

"Sure," he drawled, surprised that he could still speak, and Ivan snorted.

"You're not really afraid to do anything, are you? Is there anything I could ask that would make you say 'no'?"

Warm and flustered, he thought for a second, and then settled on, "If you asked me if I wanted to leave. I'd say no."

It was true.

The look that Ivan sent him then was worth anything in the world. No one had ever looked at him like that. Everything he had ever imagined that love would be.

He was lucky, to have his first romance be with someone like Ivan. Someone who did everything right.

He had no need to sift through person after person, like some of the students did, fretting and worrying about whether he'd found the right one and spending nights up crying himself to sleep after awful fights.

He'd gotten it right the first time. How many people could say that?

The minutes ticked on by.

The vodka started to have trouble going down, stopping halfway down his throat and threatening to come back up. Ivan was still putting them back like water. He tried to keep up.

For a moment, his arm fell lax upon the table, the shot glass gripped weakly in his hand as he hung his head and squinted his eyes.

He was ready to call it quits when he heard a giggle, and looked up, blearily.

"What?" Ivan grunted, as he slammed his glass on the table fervently, pale eyes locking onto Ludwig with something that could have been amusement, "Is that all you've got?"

Despite the doubling of his vision and the burning warmth in his veins, he knew a challenge when he heard one, and even though he _knew _that there was _no _chance he could ever hope to out-drink Ivan—not Ivan, who could devour vodka by the bottle and still stand up—he furrowed his brow, steadied his hand, and took up the glass nonetheless.

A challenge.

Ivan was watching him. He sought to impress.

The vodka burned his throat, and it was threateningly close to one too many, and for a moment, he placed his hand above his mouth to make sure that it would go down.

Ivan was leering.

It finally went, and he coughed a bit, and Ivan recapped the bottle and set it aside, saying, primly, "I think that's enough for you. You're a bit of a lightweight."

Shaking his head and trying to appear confident, he muttered, "I can hold my alcohol."

Ivan's smile widened.

"Didn't say you couldn't," was the cool response.

He had a suspicion that he was being intentionally baited, but there wasn't really much he could do about it if he was. Ivan had already pulled himself up to his feet, and staggered back behind his chair, casting a shadow above Ludwig as he rested very warm, very heavy hands upon his shoulders.

A tingle of exhilaration. Hot breath on his ear and a nose nuzzling the back of his neck.

"So tell me, Ludwig—"

Lyudovik.

"—how did it feel when they were all looking at you?"

No time to think; Ivan's fingers splayed outward, pressing into his throat with gentle pressure as his thumbs dug into the muscles of his shoulder blades.

He could only answer, honestly, "I liked it."

"Did you! I guessed so. I saw the look on your face when you were up there! I'm glad. You'll do so well out here, I can tell."

Oh. Ivan had a way of making him feel like the most important person in the entire goddamn world.

And yet...

"Did you see the way some of them looked at me when they saw I was German?"

With the burn of alcohol and the burn of excitement came the burn of aggression. And some of the looks from before that had been unable to dampen his mood were suddenly gnawing at him.

Most of them had been respectfully impassive. Some of them had been eager to interact. Fewer still had been _excited_.

Others...

Looks like _that _burned him.

"Most of them really don't want me here, do they? We're not supposed to be around each other. Germans and Russians. Ha. They can barely even look at me. They won't ever think that I'm just one of them, no matter what I'm dressed like."

A strange, unnerving silence.

He could practically hear the wheels grinding in Ivan's head. And when wheels grinded in Ivan's head? The result was not necessarily safe.

His damn mouth.

"I take care of you, don't I?" came the low, rough whisper in his ear, and Ivan gave his shoulders a firm shake that was an odd mixture of massage and throttling. "Don't I? You do everything I tell you to. And I'm telling you now, don't _ever _let them forget who you are. You're up above all of them, because I _say _you are. They can't touch you. Don't let them forget it. Don't just stand there and keep quiet. If they give you a look you don't like, put them in place. Trust me, you don't need to speak Russian to do that."

Ivan's fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, in a painful and yet oddly comforting vice.

"Once, a long time ago... When I was still a major, this sergeant out of Moscow—some son of one of my father's friends—went around the ranks telling all of the troops under my command that I'd never make general, not ever, because my mental evaluation advised much caution."

A quiet, shrill giggle from above. Ludwig shuddered.

"He told them all I was crazy! Just like my father. And a mad man would never make it up to general, not someone like _me_. He told them all. All of my comrades. My superiors. My friends. And when I walked around them the next week they all stared at me, whispering to each other. I could hear them! But I took care of it."

Frozen and feeling a shudder of thrill and fear, Ludwig asked, weakly, "How?"

Ivan's fingers began to massage his shoulders in a slow, languid, sensual pace that was at frightening odds with his quick, breathy voice and high tone.

Insanity.

"I brought him out in the yard and shot him! Just like that. It was easy enough to brand him a traitor. Toss a few papers under his bunk and buy off a few willing, ah, what's the word—witnesses. Easy, right? Ha! I shot to protect the security of the motherland. Perfectly legal. And after that, no one whispered."

Ivan's mouth was suddenly against his ear.

"Don't ever let them talk. I tell you what to do. You're above everyone else. You only listen to me. Understand? Only me. If you hear one of them talking, if one of them looks at you like that, don't worry about _why_. Just shoot them. They'll know I don't carry any fools or cowards on my arm."

A silence, as Ivan's words sank into his muddled, intoxicated mind.

Just shoot them...

He couldn't let them use his heritage against him, for the sake of Ivan's reputation. Ivan's reputation was above all else, and it was his duty, as Ivan's chosen companion, to uphold that reputation.

No matter what needed to be done.

A German was only a German until he shot you.

Bang, bang.

Then he was your superior.

With that thought, he couldn't help but giggle. Helplessly.

Ivan was giving him permission to defend himself and his honor. Granted, it was more for Ivan's honor than his own, and Ivan would never stand at the side of a coward afraid to use a gun. Oh, those poor sons of bitches that found themselves in the path of Ivan's storm.

Could he be part of it?

Maybe a typhoon to Ivan's hurricane. The wind to go with the lightening. Become a whirlwind because Ivan had stirred him to.

Ivan put him into this uniform. He was who Ivan told him he was. It was as simple as that. If Ivan told him to shoot, he would shoot. He and Ivan stood above the others. Their own world and their own rules.

Together.

And anyone who talked about it would pay the price.

Together.

Him and Ivan. A team. Always together.

Would people wonder about them?

_General Braginsky and Colonel Müller are just alike! Always together!_

_I hear they've formed a new non-aggression pact in the barracks, if you know what I mean._

His giggles turned into hysterical laughter. He could not breathe for his sniggering. Maybe he had drank too much. Far too much.

He was _someone _when he was with Ivan.

Ivan snorted at his tittering and wheezing, and added, as an afterthought, "Start with the feet first. Every time they mess up, just aim a little higher. Trust me, they don't ever get above the knees. Then they'll be your best friend."

Best friend? Unnecessary. He had Ivan. That was all he needed.

"Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it before long, as smart as you are."

Ivan's hands kneaded his shoulders firmly, and he could barely keep his head upright as the alcohol and something else ran through his veins, and everything started to slow down. Ivan's fingers were dragging up and down the sides of his neck.

Start with the feet.

His stomach squirmed, and suddenly Ivan was leaning down and breathing in his ear, "Are you still awake?"

He raised his head up and tossed it back against the top of the chair to prove that he was, indeed, still awake, and Ivan stared down at him with alarmingly scorching eyes.

The unnerving air of ruthlessness had gone. Only the sloppy grin of drunkenness remained.

"You're so drunk!" Ivan observed, quite happily, and Ludwig opened his mouth to retort, but found himself immediately silent when Ivan's hands grabbed his neck, firmly, not hard enough to hurt or cut off air, but hard enough to slow blood flow; an act of dominance, maybe a gentle reminder of who was in charge here.

As if he could forget?

Ivan leaned down, and his husky voice was persuasive as he said, eagerly, "So drunk! You should come to bed." And that didn't seem like such a bad idea, until Ivan added, lowly, "With me."

With Ivan's hands still gripping gently his neck and the alcohol in his veins, it seemed like a good idea.

"With _you_?" he managed to rumble, as Ivan leaned down dangerously close, and he could not help but smile at how red Ivan's cheeks were, and how unkempt his hair.

Ivan was attractive when flustered and aggressive. Ivan was _always _attractive.

"With me," Ivan confirmed, now so close that he could feel Ivan's warm breath on his eyelashes.

Then, as the squirm in his stomach turned into an ache when Ivan's strong fingers fell from his neck down to his upper arms in a vice grip, it seemed like a _great _idea. He had already done things today that he had never once imagined he would do, so why not extend the list? The warmth running through him was pleasant, and the slight slur in Ivan's voice was suddenly charming as he fell heavily against his back and said, "Come on. Can you, ah, walk, you think?"

Another subtle challenge.

"I can walk!" he said, defensively, and pulled himself to his feet as Ivan's strong hands kept that iron grip on his arms. And that was for the best, because his words betrayed him, and he staggered so terribly that Ivan was the only thing that kept him from crashing down onto the table.

"Didn't say you couldn't," came the teasing response.

Alright. Maybe he needed a little help.

Ivan scoffed and grumbled in Russian, and dragged him upright, and he clung to Ivan's shirt as he swam through the sea of intoxication. "I've got you," Ivan breathed, heavily, as he tried to pull Ludwig eagerly along, and Ludwig did not resist, staggering on unsteady feet.

Giddy and light-headed, Ivan had decided the bed was just too damn far away, and stopped halfway through the room, throwing Ludwig up against the wall so hard that his head spun and his chest ached.

"Close enough," Ivan grunted, and Ludwig could not help but agree, as Ivan's heaviness pressed him back into the wall and the pain in his back lit a fire in his veins.

Ivan fell against him and ran rough hands below his shirt, muttering words in Russian that he wished he could understand. He should have studied harder.

Ivan's lips were suddenly on his neck, and his less than enthusiastic studying of the Russian language was no longer a matter of particular interest. Ivan's hands were grabbing his waist hard enough to hurt.

Pressed against the wall, woozy and dizzy and far too warm, he could only grab handfuls of Ivan's shirt to steady himself as Ivan assaulted his neck, and suddenly there was something going off in his head; that voice of reason again, goddamn thing, and it was almost more of an annoyance than a help, as it told him to shove Ivan away before he got in too far over his head.

But, as his blurry eyes stared out over Ivan's shoulder, the closed door loomed in the distance, and the last time he had broken away...

What was even the point of resisting anymore? What good would it do?

Ivan was dangerous, but he wasn't afraid of danger. Ivan was violent, but so was Gilbert, and _he _could be violent too.

He wasn't a child.

The pleasant warmth in his chest and stomach won out, in the end, and the little voice was successfully stifled. Who needed it? Why couldn't _he _do something risky for once? He no longer needed that voice of reason.

This realization came not a second too soon, as Ivan suddenly grabbed his collar and ripped it open, having no care to fumble with the buttons, and then leaned down and sank his teeth into his shoulder hard enough to make him bite his lip to stifle a cry.

He'd gone too far. He wouldn't struggle. If anything happened, it was because he _wanted _to. Not because he _had _to.

Ivan hadn't ever hurt him.

He finally shut down the voice, and threw wobbly arms around Ivan's neck as he struggled to keep balance. Ivan was murmuring away. Russian. The language of passion.

He _wanted_ to. He would have done anything to keep Ivan looking at him like that.

Heat.

Hands fumbled out and somehow grabbed the cord of the lamp.

Darkness.

Ivan's hands were suddenly tangled up in the loop of his belt.

And then the fucking phone rang.

For a moment, he almost didn't realize what that annoying, shrill shrieking was, and quite honestly, he didn't much _care_; what mattered was that Ivan's warm hands had fallen tragically still.

It must have been an act of extreme bravery and extreme _idiocy _to call General Braginsky in the middle of the night in a hotel room in Moscow. A suicide mission, no doubt.

The curling of Ivan's lip and the hiss of annoyance all but said it, and the warm hands abandoned his belt as Ivan pulled away, leaving Ludwig to totter helplessly for balance as he stalked towards the phone.

Better have been _good_. Otherwise...

A rough, infuriated, "_Tebe pizdets_—"

Reaching out, Ludwig grabbed a hold of the dresser, and steadied himself as Ivan plopped down onto the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. Muttering in Russian. Suddenly, the whispered words weren't so arousing. Quite the opposite in fact.

This sound was _dangerous_. Like the hissing of a stick of dynamite just waiting to go off.

Even in the dim light from the moon outside, he could see it. A horrible passing of darkness through Ivan's eyes, and Ludwig felt that icy dread mingling with the heat when Ivan gripped the phone so hard that it creaked, and he fell still.

The closet door was suddenly far more visible, even in the darkness.

Pauses and lapses of silence, and then Ivan speaking, and then more silence, and then a click.

Dial tone.

The lamp came back on.

And the look on Ivan's face was terrifying.

That old calamity.

Every minute his alertness and senses were dulling as he fell into outright drunkenness, but he was still so startled when Ivan suddenly pitched the phone into the wall that he jumped.

Broken plastic sat on the gold carpet.

Ivan was pacing now.

He couldn't move. Didn't dare—in these moments, a breath or footstep could cause a catastrophe. Better to wait it out, and let Ivan figure out exactly how far he would let his anger go.

Oh, why did these stupid things always have to happen when times with Ivan were at their best?

Now there was only peril.

His wobbly feet betrayed him, and he swayed so far to the left that he lost his balance and staggered straight over onto the floor. Ivan looked down at him over his shoulder, with that tilted head of contemplation.

Silence.

He sat there where he fell, and didn't try to move, fingers digging into the carpet and feeling ill. Fuckin' closet was just waiting back there in the shadows.

Finally, Ivan moved. Heavy steps, and then a hand wrenched itself in his shirt, and he was hauled to his feet.

The dread was overwhelming.

But he wasn't chucked into the closet.

Instead, Ivan held him steady, both hands grabbing his shirt, and then he asked, "Do you feel sick?"

He did, but not because of the alcohol, and so he answered, "No."

"Good. Come on."

Ivan's hand left his shirt and gripped his hand in a vice, and he could feel himself being pulled along. The heat from Ivan's hand had become blazing. Maybe from anger.

He stumbled along at Ivan's side.

For a heated, dizzy moment, Ludwig was _certain _that Ivan was dragging him over to the bed, to throw him down upon it and crawl upon him as he had done several times before, and maybe this time it would go farther than it ever had, and even though it should have _frightened _him, somehow...

Somehow, seeing Ivan before him, tall and strong and disheveled, it didn't seem so bad. Not such a bad idea. With that thought in his head and heart racing in an exhilarating mixture of nervousness and excitement, he loosened his feet and let Ivan pull him along.

Ivan did not lead him to the bed. Instead, he led him to the door.

He remembered cold air.

The events between the hotel and the next destination were blurry at best, completely forgotten at worst, as the alcohol suppressed his memory and senses.

All that was really certain was that somehow, he wound up inside another building.

He couldn't say what it was. A room. Maybe a different hotel. Maybe a house.

A large bedroom, with a king bed in the center and a closet door off to the side. A table with a phone.

Curtains.

When he saw his reflection in front of a mirror, he barely recognized himself. The pristine uniform was disheveled and half-unbuttoned, messy and damp, and his hair was plastered to his scalp with melted snow. He was white as a ghost, save for his face, which was flushed a deep red with intoxication and cold.

Passing blurs.

When he gathered himself again, he heard voices, and after a second of struggling he managed to scope the room and pinpoint the source.

Ivan was talking to someone.

Voices faded in and out. Lights danced.

Where _was _he?

His head was swimming.

The sounds around him were garbled and distant, like he was pressing his ear into a conch and listening to the ocean. He had to close his eyes and furrow his brow and tilt his head just to gather himself.

Deep breaths. When he opened his eyes, he could see the man that Ivan was speaking to.

It was the same officer from the street. The stir of agitation was undeniable. He'd been interrupted from a very personal moment and thrust into possible danger just so this jerk could finish up the conversation he'd started back on the street?

With the vodka running the show, he opened his mouth, and very nearly cried, 'What do you want, you idiot? Don't you know what time it is?'

But the man beat him to the punch, and before his voice came out, another interrupted.

"Ah. Colonel Müller. Have you been alright?"

The shock was enough to hold his tongue.

Who _was _this man? What did he _want_?

Ludwig fell back a step, squinting his eyes through the haze in his head as he tried to place the face and voice.

He seemed so familiar. Think.

Ivan stood back, and stayed silent.

He tried to focus. Cigar. Ushanka. The gritty voice.

That voice—

_Fashisty._

It struck him suddenly like a train, and he realized with a horrible lurch of something that almost felt like _horror _who this man was.

Pavlov. That was his name. Major Pavlov, the man that had extended his hand in kindness and tried to make him fell less awkward and helpless when he had found himself caught up in the tide of Ivan's great military ball.

The only one who hadn't looked at him like he was an unwelcome guest.

The whooshing in his head started to die down, as intoxication gave way to the adrenaline of fright and a gnawing feeling of dread. Ivan just stood there, and the passing of shadows across his face was alarming.

The air was thick.

Pavlov kept a fair distance from Ivan, his cigar clenched firmly in his hand and shifting his weight back and forth in a very anxious manner.

Something didn't _feel _right.

When Ivan started speaking, his voice was low and strange, a barely audible murmur. Something wrong; Ivan and Pavlov just crooned away, and yet they kept their distance and their stances very tense, and every so often Ivan's fingers twitched down towards the gun in his belt. Pavlov didn't move, a silent appearance of resignation on his face.

They looked at odds. Sniping gently from afar.

There was that awful feeling of a pending disaster. Like the calm winds that blew right before a tornado formed.

He didn't understand what was going _on_. He did not understand the darkness upon Ivan's face. Hadn't they been so friendly with each other earlier in the day? Hadn't Ivan professed that he trusted this man? What had been said over the phone?

He wanted to raise his voice and ask Ivan if they could just _go_, but he couldn't move. His arms felt like they weighed a ton. _Oh_, he wanted to _go_.

He didn't want to know what was going to happen.

Pavlov, looking over, saw him glancing back and forth between them, and maybe his eyes were wide with alarm or maybe he was shaking, or maybe Pavlov just needed to talk to _someone_, for he caught Ludwig's gaze and said, simply, "I called it off."

Ludwig stood still, hardly daring to breathe (let alone move) as Ivan took steps towards the side, settling in close beside of him as if keeping guard.

What?

"Huh?"

"I called it off," Pavlov repeated, his harsh, raspy voice low as he held his cigar firmly within his hand, "Your raid, Colonel. I called it off. I decided against sending my men into a waiting ambush, although I will not deny that I admire your determination. I'm tired of killing students and children. I'm tired of tanks running over old women's houses. I wanted to teach my soldiers to act differently. I didn't want to do this anymore."

His raid.

_His _raid.

That was right! That long stretch of darkness—those dark moments that he couldn't really place. That was what had happened then. He could feel the marker between his fingers.

At his side, Ivan scoffed.

The thoughts started coming in through the mists. Beyond the massacre of students, beyond the casualties of children, beyond the destruction of old houses, one thing struck him above all else :

It was _his _fault. It was his fault that Pavlov was standing before Ivan now, staring straight at the veil and on the line of life and death.

His fault.

He should have only chosen one town. Just one. Not all three. He had tried too hard to impress. It had been his decision. If he hadn't have made that decision, if it had just been one group he had singled out, then someone else would have led the soldiers, someone lower and unimportant, and Ivan would never have called in this man that he had trusted. None of this would have happened.

Ivan muttered, lowly, "You won't have to worry about it anymore."

Pavlov only smiled.

Wait. This could be fixed.

"I-I can think of something else," Ludwig was quick to supply, when he saw that horrible passing of shadow through Ivan's eyes again, and he said it only in an attempt to extend verbal aid to Pavlov as Pavlov had once done for him.

His voice sounded strange; thin and strained and unsteady.

But there had never been any hope, and Pavlov's next words made it obvious why.

"I also told him," Pavlov began in an odd, cool tone, "to take _you_ back wherever he picked you up from. You surprised me. You can be a dangerous one, colonel, when you try. You don't need to be out here. With _him_." A quick glance at Ivan, and Pavlov smiled, cigar-stained teeth visible in the light. "You two together could be a problem, don't you think? It's best if you go back home before it's too late."

"This is home," Ivan said, sternly, before Ludwig could finish comprehending the words.

Home.

Pavlov didn't _understand_; he didn't have a home to go back to. There was no one waiting back _there_, no one opening the door and looking outside just to see if he was coming. No one remembered him by now. Not even Gilbert.

Traitor. He was a traitor, and Gilbert was a liar, so how could going back _there _have possibly been any better?

Ivan was right. _This _was home. Wherever Ivan was—that was home.

He stayed silent, and Pavlov, seeing Ivan's hand fall down onto his shoulder heavily, only shook his head.

"I see."

Just like that, Ivan and Pavlov returned to their intense staring contest, and Ludwig wondered if Pavlov really understood what might happen. Because he wasn't shaking. He didn't look scared.

But no; anyone who had known Ivan long enough to call him 'friend' would have to know exactly what would happen if any direct order were disobeyed.

Pavlov wasn't stupid. He knew.

"Ludwig," Ivan suddenly said, through the crushing silence, and he was caught under Ivan's vice grip squeezing his shoulder. "Do you want to leave?"

Pain.

A throwback to his earlier statement, and Ivan was using his own words to his advantage. What could he do?

"No."

"You see?" Ivan said to Pavlov, voice high and a bit slurred. "See? Don't waste your time. What were you ever thinking?"

Pavlov watched the hand that was gripping Ludwig's shoulder with a grimace of distaste, but eventually only shifted his eyes back to Ivan, keeping his shoulders straight and firm and unmoving even though there had to have been some part of him that was _terrified_, and when Ivan caught his gaze, he shrugged one shoulder and drawled, "It had to happen, sooner or later."

Ivan tilted his head, a ghost of a smile on his face as his hand fell back down to his side.

"Didn't have to."

Oh, why were they speaking in German? Let them speak in Russian. He didn't want to understand them. Not now.

Ivan's voice was almost mournful. As though he had lost a great friend.

The major laughed, mostly to himself, shaking his head as Ludwig fell back another step, his subconscious urging him to retreat before he witnessed something he did not want to. Ivan saw him slinking away, and reached out with those impossible reflexes, nicking the edge of his loose sleeve and pulling him back over.

He felt sick all of a sudden.

He knew it now; Pavlov was not going to leave this room alive. There was no way. Disobeying an order was one thing. Telling Ivan to get rid of something that he cherished was something else.

Too much.

Pavlov spoke again, reverting into Russian (mercifully) as he stood at attention before Ivan, rigid as a board in respect (even now) and now his voice trembled. Ivan only shook his head, as though he just couldn't _understand_.

Ivan couldn't understand why Pavlov had had the slightest of reluctances to massacring a town.

Ivan couldn't understand.

But Ludwig _could_, and to see Ivan suddenly reach into his coat and pull out his gun was like witnessing the destruction of a childhood home. Utter despair. Hopelessness. Helplessness. He couldn't stop it.

The steel flashed in the lamplight. Pavlov didn't even flinch.

Just when Ludwig was certain that things couldn't get any worse, a shift of the shadows; Ivan turned to him, that smile of adoration upon his face, and he reached down to take up Ludwig's hand within his own and force open his fingers.

The gun was set into his palm.

"Here."

The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand.

"It's alright!" Ivan crooned, seeing the look on his face, "It's not hard. Remember how I showed you? You can do it."

It didn't need to be said. It was obvious. Ivan wanted him to shoot Pavlov. Ivan wanted him to commit murder, this time directly.

His head split open, and for a moment, all he could was reach up with his left hand and cradle his forehead in an awful moment of uncertainty. His heart thudded so hard that he was sure he was going to vomit.

What could he do?

Ivan's hand was on his shoulder again.

"You'll do fine."

The heat of alcohol was all but gone. The room was far too cold.

His hand moved up of his own accord, in a faint echo of how Ivan had held his arm up when teaching him to shoot.

He couldn't see straight. His hand was shaking again.

Ivan should not have trusted him with his; his hand was trembling so bad that he'd probably miss altogether if he did somehow manage to fire the damn gun.

He wasn't sure he could do it.

Pavlov made no move to escape. He just _stood_ there.

Ludwig could barely see him. Just shadows and blurs as his head threatened to explode.

He was going to faint. Lightheadedness.

Pavlov smiled at him as he tried to focus his gaze.

"You know," he began, as he turned to Ludwig, sturdy and strong despite the gun pointed at his chest, "I can still see something there, in you. Something I used to have." He raised his hand up, in a slow, steady salute, and Ludwig felt _shamed_, because he was not military and he had done _nothing _to deserve being saluted.

That ego of before was gone, replaced with a horrid chill. He felt _sick _at having been proud of being saluted earlier in the day.

Shame.

Pavlov ignored his paleness all the same, and the horrible trembling of the gun in the air, and continued, "Something valuable. Men like us, you know, we lost that long ago." At Ludwig's wide-eyed stare, he elaborated, with a weak smile, "Feelings." A dry laugh, and his eyes met Ludwig's with alarming intensity. "I advise that you do everything you can to hold on to them."

"Hush, now, Dimi," came Ivan's gentle voice. A calm, tender chastisement. "Don't lie to him. There was never any hope for men like _us_. Ha, next you'll tell him that we weren't born bad, either."

Pavlov smiled, and Ivan did too, and Ludwig's hand shook more fiercely than ever.

The air was cold.

Men like _them_.

Silence.

...was he one of them? Was he?

"Ludwig."

The sound of his name dragged him from his stupor, and he looked over at Ivan blearily. Was it alcohol or tears that made him so unable to see?

"It's alright. Do it."

Do it. He could do it.

Ivan was watching him, and so was Pavlov.

A quiet observation. "Hold on to yourself." A warning. "I was like you once. Be careful. Soon..."

The click of the hammer.

"You'll be me."

Ivan's voice melded in.

"Do it."

He had finally gotten the hammer back. He could pull the trigger. He tried. Nothing happened.

He was frozen.

He had thought it earlier, hadn't he? If Ivan told him to shoot, he would shoot.

But his finger was stuck.

Pavlov waited, at perfect attention and chest puffed out, the very vision of pride and dignity. Waiting his execution.

Ludwig tried to pull the trigger again.

Nothing.

It hit him.

He couldn't do it. Oh Christ in heaven, he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't. He couldn't pull the trigger.

He _couldn't_.

The gun fell from his numb fingers, landing on the carpet with a thud.

He was shaking. Numb. Everything was numb.

Failure.

He had let Ivan down. Useless. Couldn't even shoot a gun.

Frozen still and unable even to breathe, he could only stare at the man before him, trembling like a leaf in a breeze, as Ivan's boot made a soft sound upon the carpet as he came forward. A blurry movement.

Ivan picked up the gun.

_Murderer._

Everything was blurry.

_Murderer._

The air was cold.

Pavlov smiled bravely. Or maybe he had no emotions left, and smiled because he just didn't know what else to _do_.

Fake it.

Pulling himself unsteadily back upright for the vodka, Ivan took up the gun in his hand in a moment of bleary observation, squinting to focus, and then found the hammer. He pulled it back.

Ludwig stood still, heart lurching and adrenaline racing as Ivan looked over his shoulder and caught his eye with a sloppy smile.

A fond whisper.

"Hey. Don't worry about it. It's alright."

Time stopped, as Ivan stared at him with that unwavering, intense gaze, even so drunk, and for a moment, in that quiet air, he felt a rising of hope within his chest.

Ivan wasn't angry.

'Don't worry about it.'

Yeah. Don't worry. Ivan did what was right.

Ivan stood still.

A thought crossed his mind, and it brought with it a wan smile. He wasn't going to do it! Ivan had just wanted to scare Pavlov. Ivan had known all along that _he _wouldn't be able to do it.

_He _couldn't pull that trigger.

Now they could just go back to the hotel and go to sleep and forget this whole night, because Pavlov had learned his lesson, and by God! So had he! Ivan wasn't going to do it. It was just another game. Ivan didn't want to do it. He could see it just in that strangely somber look. Ivan didn't _want _to kill this man that he valued and admired and perhaps called 'friend'. Just another game—

A motion.

Ivan whirled around, still capable of those tiger speeds even while so intoxicated.

A gunshot.

Ludwig jumped so hard that he nearly fell backwards, arms flying up in a strange twitching next to his head, an automatic mechanism of defense, and he fell back, catching himself against the wall at the last second.

The sound of it was like an explosion in this tiny, quiet room.

Then an eerie silence, broken only by a strange gurgle.

A rattle.

And then nothing.

With a great breath, Ludwig finally lowered his arms, and opened his eyes.

Ivan was standing in the middle of the room, scratching his head with the barrel of the gun, as he stared down at the floor. A 'tsk' of disappointment. The sharp smell of blood came next, metallic and strong, and from where Ivan stood, Ludwig could see the stain spreading out across the carpet.

The gun lowered back down to Ivan's side, and he tilted his head again; the dog, staring down at his kill as if trying to remember why he'd killed it in the first place.

A great sigh.

Giving in a bit to his intoxication, Ivan staggered back and forth as he hung his head and whispered to himself, tapping the gun on his thigh as he muttered under his breath, voice low and despondent, "Dimi, Dimi, _druzhba druzhboi, a sluzhba sluzhboi."_

Then he stumbled over to the end-table that held the phone, passing by Ludwig and leaving him to lean against the wall and breath so hard that he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Ivan took up the phone in his hand.

Now that he had moved, Ludwig could see Pavlov.

Lying there on the floor, above a pool of blood. A single shot to the heart.

He shook his head to clear it, and could barely even remember what the hell had happened.

Just a darkness, and an odd numbness.

Pavlov's fingers were still twitching with the final firing of nerves, the poor son of a bitch. Stupid. Hadn't he known this would happen? Couldn't he have just done his job?

A stark reminder that this was where a conscience brought you in Ivan's world.

Off to the side, Ivan was cursing.

"Ludwig!"

He looked over, dumbly.

Ivan was having difficulty.

"Shit," he grumbled to himself, as his finger poked clumsily at the numbers on the phone as he swayed back and forth, squinting his eyes to focus them, and it was obvious that he was far too intoxicated to dial the number he wanted.

Ivan was still drunk under the table. Ludwig was crashing.

_Hard_.

The smell of blood.

"Ludwig, come here," Ivan finally mewled, voice high with frustration, "Dial this damn number for me! ...can't get it."

Numbly, Ludwig wobbled over and did as he was told, feeling like a ghost, punching numbers blindly as Ivan said them aloud, and he didn't even stop to think about who he was calling.

It didn't matter.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or throw up. His head was spinning. Confusion.

Oh, he hated that _smell_.

The call was going through.

A few seconds of ringing (it was _so _late! Who would pick up now?), and then a click, and then, after a hesitation, a rough, sleepy voice said, mechanically, "_Allo_?"

For a moment, he stood still, uncertain of what to say to this person, and finally Ivan said, "Did he pick up?"

Ludwig could only nod.

"Took long enough! Tell him—tell him to get that shitty little _Ilyushin _out of the snow and to get his ass in Kiev by tomorrow evening."

"_Allo_?"

Ludwig stood frozen, and then finally managed to whisper, "The...the what?"

"The _Ilyushin_! The plane, the plane, that little piece of shit cargo thing, tell him to get out there and meet us tomorrow."

Agitated and still feeling horrifically numb, Ludwig raised the phone up, and when he heard the voice on the other line say, apprehensively, "_Allo? Ivan?_" he realized finally that it was Toris.

Just Toris.

"Toris," he finally said, voice so low and rough that it cracked with the effort, "It's me. It's me, I—"

"_Ludwig_!" Toris interrupted urgently, "_What's happened? Are you alright? Where are you at? Where's Ivan? Are you alright? Huh_?"

He fell silent under Toris' panic, and when finally he was given an opportunity to speak, he wanted to say, 'No, I'm not alright! I need your help! Please come _get _me!'

But he didn't. Instead, he only droned, mechanically, "Get the plane. You need to be in Kiev by tomorrow evening."

"_Wha—but, what's happened? Oh, Ludwig, are you okay? Won't you_—"

Slowly, he set the phone down.

Click.

He didn't know what else to do.

Maybe Toris had been right all along. He should have kept that stupid rock.

"Is he coming?" Ivan asked from behind, and Ludwig nodded.

As if Toris would ever say 'no'. Ha.

Blood.

Hands were suddenly on his shoulders, and Ivan whirled him around, the smile still on his face. Croons of comfort, and Ludwig was vaguely aware that he was being led over to the side.

The creak of a door. Shadow and darkness.

Once again, he looked up, and found himself in the threshold of a closet.

He didn't bother to try and get out of this one, because he'd messed up. He hadn't shot Pavlov, like Ivan had instructed. He'd failed. There was no excuse for failure. Ivan demanded perfection.

He would accept his punishment as any soldier would have been expected to accept a reprimand.

Ivan leaned forward, and placed a firm kiss upon his forehead.

"Sleep," he commanded, gently, as he held Ludwig in between light and dark with firm hands. "We're going to Kiev in the morning to fix this mess. We can do this. You'll do better than he ever could have. And don't worry, I'm not mad at you! It's alright, you're just working up to it, is all. You just need some more time."

The smile that crept over his own face could not be stopped.

Ivan's patience with him was still astounding. Ivan had faith in him. No matter what. No matter how many mistakes he made.

"I'm really proud of you. You did so well today! I was right, you know? This is where you belong. Remember that."

He nodded, and when Ivan let him go, he stood there, smiling like an idiot and taking in as much of Ivan as he could before the door finally shut.

Darkness.

Immediately, the shadows started to stir.

Whispering in the dark.

"Sleep."

Ivan's voice was muffled and distant.

A moment of silence.

Then there was the dull, hollow thud of Ivan collapsing back against the door breaking the silence, and a heavy whisper, as Ivan breathed to no one just outside, "Idiot. I can handle this myself. Who ever needed him? I could have done it all myself..."

German faded into drunken Russian.

Ivan faded into sleep.

A faint whisper, barely audible :

"Ludwig?"

Falling forward in the pitch-black, Ludwig rested against the door, pressing his ear desperately against the thick oak as he struggled to hear Ivan's soft voice.

_Oh_, God, what he would have given to have been out there in the light with him.

"I'm here. Don't worry. I won't leave you alone. I promise."

He wasn't worried. He trusted Ivan. Ivan wouldn't leave him here.

Ivan had promised that they would not be parted. He believed it. He _trusted _Ivan.

"I know," was all he could manage, as Ivan's deep breathing through the door kept the whispers at bay.

"We'll go together. We can do it. You'll be fine."

The metallic smell of blood was creeping under the door.

He waited, ear against the wood, but Ivan spoke no more. Only the sound of his own breathing, and the rustling of his clothes as he shifted.

When he spread out, his legs bumped into the wall. No room to lie down.

Something was moving. He could hear something.

Voices.

_Murderer._

Coming to torment him now that he was alone in the darkness.

Pressing his back into the door, he pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his ears with his palms, bowing his head down and struggling against the horrible voices in his head.

Just voices.

_Murderer._

Ivan was on the other side. Ivan was here. Ivan would protect him from himself.

_Murderer._

Maybe Ivan was a walking calamity to the rest of the world, but if so, what did it matter? Ivan would never hurt _him_. His papers were tucked safely away in the dresser back home and his uniform was well-fitted and warm and Ivan was just outside the door. All he needed.

_Murderer_.

The rest of the world was becoming of less consequence every passing day. Just names and words and numbers. No personal connection.

Not like Ivan, who he could see and hear and touch and feel.

Pavlov was dead. Nothing would change that. Why worry about? Pavlov had brought it on himself. Idiot.

Ivan was a murderer.

But so was he.

As long as they were together, nothing else mattered.

They slept in Pavlov's room that night.

Ludwig leaning on one side of the door, Ivan leaning on the other, and the motionless body off in the center. Ivan was as good as his word; he did not leave Ludwig there, and as soon as Ivan drifted back into consciousness in the morning light, the closet door creaked open.

Ivan grabbed his hand, and they left.

They left him there. No one ever came knocking to see what the commotion was.

His second murder.

It was easier than the first, and when they stepped out together into the streets, he didn't feel guilty. He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel remorse. Actually, he didn't feel _anything_.

Anything at all.

As long as Ivan smiled.

No one ever came knocking.

They left him there.

He'd brought it upon himself.


	21. Chapter 20

**A/N: AHEM, AHEM**. For those of you who read **Acceleration Waltz**, guess what? **OrangePlum** is turning it into a comic book! GO LOOK! : accelerationwaltz. (tumblr) .com. It's so AWESOME! ;_; (I am pimping this everywhere)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

The next journey was much quicker than the last.

Instead of ten days, a little over ten hours.

He sat there, still and quiet, just like before, as Ivan slung a heavy arm over his shoulder and crooned away in his ear. He didn't comprehend the words. He only stared out of the window, and watched the little towns and forests pass.

He was on his way to his own little town outside of Kiev. Did it have a name? Maybe. Did it matter?

...no.

Ivan would crush it all the same.

Lifting his eyes up to the grey sky, Ludwig watched the clouds and, absurdly, tried to catch a glimpse of a little airplane on high.

Toris might have already been there.

Maybe Toris wouldn't show at all. What if the plane crashed, or poor Toris simply couldn't free it from the Siberian ice to get it underway? What if Toris wasn't there when they arrived?

He wanted to see Toris. He _needed _to see Toris. Ivan was God; so he needed _Toris_, because Toris was human, and so was he, and he needed that reassurance of an equal. Of someone who had done this all before. Of someone who was experienced and seasoned.

He needed to see Toris, if only to have living proof before him that everything would turn out alright.

Beside of him, that heavy arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders, Ivan leaned into him, and buried his face in the side of Ludwig's neck with a weary moan.

Maybe a little hung-over. So, it seemed, sometimes even Ivan could have a little too much.

Hours passed.

This train was not so private as the last, and they were stuck in a very small compartment, with only a screen door slid shut that separated them from the other compartments and the other passengers.

The seats were the hard wood benches of most trains.

Ivan crooned in his ear as he passed in and out of sleep, muttering away words he couldn't understand, squeezing him compulsively every so often as the train lurched along.

His thoughts were muddled and disjointed. The day before was a blurry memory.

Standing before the army was fresh in his mind.

The events afterwards? Not so much. Fragments. Another example of why he should know better than to touch the vodka.

He knew the important details. Because of Pavlov's failure, Ivan was taking him out to Kiev. He and Ivan would finish up what Pavlov had not.

Standing up on top of the tank had been the work of fate, perhaps; Ivan was taking him out into a military excursion, where he was expected to stand upon the tank again, only this time he had to be in command of it and the men below.

Or something like that.

Oh. He felt _sick_.

Ivan had too much faith in him. He didn't know if he could do it. What if he messed it all up? The _worst _thought imaginable; letting Ivan down.

The white trees passed by in a blur, and his breath fogged up the glass as he turned his eyes back and forth.

Little houses, here and there.

Ivan's breath was warm on his neck as he slept away.

Rocking back and forth, back and forth, as the train lurched forward.

He was worried. As much faith as Ivan had in him, he didn't believe in himself. He was afraid he would do something wrong, and turn around only to see Ivan shake his head in disappointment.

His worst fear.

The world felt like it would fall apart right beneath his feet if Ivan looked at him with anything but a smile. And while hearing him say that to himself felt absolutely ridiculous, there was no point in denying it.

Why bother?

After so many years of being the responsible one, the solitary one, the one who relied on himself and was let down by others, it meant _so _much more than he could ever put into words to have someone who looked out for him. Someone that he could rely on. To be able to sit back and know that he didn't have to worry, because someone else was there to take care of everything.

It meant so much.

So the thought of letting Ivan down, as _he _had let him down, was absolutely horrifying.

He was better than that. He had always swore to himself, always, that he wouldn't ever be like _him_. That when someone came along who was willing to extend their hand, that he wouldn't ever let them down. That he would be _better_.

His reflection seemed far too pale.

Stupid Pavlov. If he could have just done his job...

He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know what he had to do.

Not knowing.

He sat there, head resting on the cold glass and pressed up beneath Ivan, and watched the distance pass by in silence, and it was really all he could do just to try and keep himself together.

The hours passed quickly, Russia turned into the Ukraine, Ivan woke up as the afternoon sun hung high in the sky, and Ludwig looked at his reflection in the window of the train.

Beyond the sky, behind the passing trees, beyond the snow and the grey and the cold, himself.

He looked fine. He looked professional and ready.

God help him, he didn't _feel _that way.

He wanted to turn to Ivan and ask exactly what he would be doing, but some part of him really didn't want to know, and maybe not knowing in this instance was the only thing keeping him from becoming a puddle of nerves.

He would wait and see, and hopefully Ivan would give him a briefing on the way. A briefing. Ha; like he was actually military. This role of imposter was starting to feel a little normal. Maybe in time, he could fall into this so well that he just forgot that he had ever been a civilian in the first place.

Like Toris. Toris played everything so well that Ludwig would never have known he wasn't a real lieutenant if he hadn't said anything.

He wanted to be like that. He wanted to see Toris. To look to what to be. Ivan trusted Toris. Toris did everything Ivan asked, with skill and precision. Toris went off on his own into the world and knew how to interact and survive.

He looked to Toris.

Yet last night, being compared to Toris had set him off.

When afternoon faded into evening, Ivan started to perk up a little and look around. The first thing he said, when he was alert, was, "It's warm here!"

Well. Warm_er_, maybe.

Anything below freezing he didn't really consider 'warm', but, then again, as they approached Kiev the snow seemed to get wetter and wetter, and the icicles on the train started to drip a little with the humidity. And that, to Ivan, was no doubt warm.

After the inhospitable winds and hellishly cold temperatures of Siberia, this very mild chill was pretty tolerable.

Ivan, having slept off most of his hangover, looked to be in a good mood, as he peered out of the window and ran absent fingers through Ludwig's hair.

A good sign. Ivan in a good mood was _always _a good sign.

The fields turned into houses, and then a city.

Kiev.

The train station came soon.

Just as densely populated as the station in Moscow. Just as noisy.

When the train came to a halt, Ivan stood up and slid the screen open, and led him out into the open. People were making their way to the door, but Ivan didn't seem to enjoy lines, pushing through them without a second thought.

Ludwig, as usual, could only try to keep up with him.

People all around. None of them knew what was going to happen out here. They passed through them with relative ease, and with an eerie repeat of the journey to Moscow, there was a black car waiting in the street.

Déjà vu.

How did Ivan set all of this up without him ever seeing? Maybe Toris' hand was upon all of this. Things like that, arranging cars and appointments, were boring to Ivan. Toris had done it.

The car was in front of him a little too quickly, and when Ivan held open the door, and there was no turning back. He got in. Even though he knew that this car would take him to somewhere he may not have really wanted to be.

No going back. He had to push forward.

They drove for an hour or so, leaving the tall buildings of the city behind and going out into the country, where the houses were few and far between. Some quiet little village in the middle of nowhere was lying right in the path of destruction. Roads passed. Hardly any cars out here.

As they came closer, they had to stop, and he saw why.

A roadblock was set up. Armored vehicles and men in uniform blocked the path, rifles in hand. It was only when they saw Ivan's uniform that they lifted the gate and let them pass, and Ludwig realized with a bit of nausea that they had closed down the roads not so that no one could get in, but so that no one could get out.

So no villagers would flee the target area.

This had been set up days in advance. Had they opened the gates, he wondered, for women and children that had wanted to leave? He doubted it.

After the roadblock, the ride continued for half an hour, and then the car pulled into a field. There were no signs. No gates. No buildings.

Just a field.

But it was full of tanks, and vehicles, and soldiers that leaned back and smoked as they waited for the general to arrive. They were probably wondering, above all else, why they needed to wait for a general and a colonel for what was to them surely a very simple and very easy mission.

How could they have known that this was meant to break the 'colonel' in?

Maybe it had been explained to them that was an exercise to show the GDR how things were done out here in the heart of the Soviet Union. Maybe they had been told that the major had suddenly had duty elsewhere and didn't have time to do this anymore.

The car stopped, but the engine didn't turn, and Ivan said, simply, "Wait here."

He did, and watched from the window as Ivan stepped out and went out into the middle of the soldiers. Minutes of talking, planning and mapping, and the soldiers saluted and broke off into their vehicles.

The tanks started lurching upwards, working their way up the muddy field. The armored cars followed, and when Ivan leapt back inside, their own car cut into the middle of the line and began its slow crawl upward.

There was no road. They just drove up through the high grass and the mud. What if they got stuck? Then what? Why go this way, if the roads had all been blocked? Why try to sneak up, if the students already expected them? What was the sense?

He didn't understand any of this.

He didn't understand why these students had ever been deemed a great threat when all they ever really did was start riots in the streets and read things they weren't supposed to. How was that dangerous? How was that a crime?

Things were so different out here. Back _there_, a riot in the street had earned a man maybe a night in jail, if he caused a great disturbance, and maybe a fine.

Not death.

Maybe there was no point in trying to understand it. It was just easier to shut down his mind and do whatever Ivan told him to do. It didn't matter why. Orders were orders. Even if they didn't make any sense.

But damn, was he nervous.

Terrified that he would mess everything up, like he seemed to have a knack for doing. He had never done anything like this, not even in his damn dreams. His first attempt at war. His first chance to make use of this uniform.

Ivan expected a lot of him.

The car rocked back and forth as it fought with the mud.

He clenched his hands in his lap, turned his eyes to the window, and tried not to give away his nervousness.

Ivan saw it anyway.

Warm breath on his neck, and then a low whisper. "Don't worry so much. You'll do fine."

How could Ivan know? How could Ivan have such faith in him? He didn't understand that, either.

He sat still, and didn't move a muscle, staring out at the passing fields. He could hear the tanks barreling forward ahead of them and behind them. He tried to be strong, and act brave, even though he didn't really _feel_ brave.

Ivan expected so _much _of him.

As if reading his mind, Ivan suddenly reached out, slung an overbearing arm around his shoulders, leaned in close, and whispered, "You've come so far! I'm so proud of you."

Mystified and dazed and maybe a little hypnotized, he could only turn to look at Ivan, their noses brushing together in a moment of oddly satisfying intimacy, and breathe, "Really?"

He wanted to ask, 'What if I fuck this up? Will you still be proud of me?' but no such words came.

And when Ivan gave one single, fervent nod, it didn't matter anymore.

He was sold.

The confidence that such simple words brought up was amazing. He straightened up, slung his right arm up on the windowsill, leaned back, and watched the trees and grass pass.

He felt something almost like excitement. He was confident. Ivan's dominance and self-assurance made it a little easier to believe in himself.

For a while there, as the car bumped up and down and as Ivan's arm hung above his shoulder, he smiled.

The life of a soldier was just to follow orders. An easy life. Not thinking about what you were doing was sometimes a blessing.

The car crept up the field slowly, stuck in between the languid tanks, and the sky began to darken as night approached. The high grass rippled in the breeze. The air was cold. Damp.

Finally, he could see the outline of little houses in the distance. Smoke rising from chimneys. Quiet. Calm. Unsuspecting.

They stopped, all of them, cars, tanks, military vehicles, outside there, in the mud. Outside of the town limits. Waiting for the moment to spring.

Their car finally came to halt, amidst the vehicles, and Ivan stepped out. Ludwig lingered, for a little, a bit overwhelmed and a bit stunned and a bit scared.

Seeing the town dampened the confidence a little.

A noise at his side startled him, and he looked over to see Ivan standing above, holding the door open for him and smiling. Abashed, he stepped out, stifling the churning of his stomach and the tremor of his hands as he tried to return Ivan's smile.

Ivan, perhaps in an attempt to calm him, shut the door, and whispered, lowly, "I apologize. I didn't realize you liked to have the door opened for you. I'll be more of a gentleman from now on."

He tried to laugh. A weak, rough scratch came out.

Confident? Nope. All gone. He felt suddenly so nervous. Daunted.

Seeing the little town up there...

It was different, somehow.

Ivan placed a quick hand on his shoulder, trying to urge him along, and he felt himself walking mechanically, keeping his shoulders tensed and eyes straight ahead. An automatic response to Ivan's nudging.

He wasn't really thinking about it. He was trying not to think about _anything_. Otherwise, he'd just feel sick.

They rounded the car, and came into a clearing, where the soldiers were gathering.

The soldiers had impressed him before, but in that moment, there was something else that caught his eye, something else that lit up his veins with adrenaline and made him want to run over.

Toris.

Standing there in neat uniform, arms crossed above his chest and looking over the men with something very close to a sneer, he was speaking lowly to another officer, and it struck Ludwig, instantly, that Toris looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Toris looked calm. Impassive. Ready to set this thing in motion and see it off, however it went.

That what was he wanted to be. He couldn't really recall why he had ever felt any pity for Toris in the first place. Toris had this all _down_. That was how he wanted to be. He looked to Toris, who stood there amongst these men and didn't even miss a beat, gliding above them with authority that was _real _in the way that he wielded it. Toris, who stood there with gun at his side, looking as if this was just business as usual.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Toris.

Toris.

Oh, God, how he had _missed _Toris.

Their eyes met suddenly, Toris stopped in the middle of speech, the look on his face that of obvious worry, and it was only Ivan standing there that kept Toris from rushing forward. Ludwig wished, even so, that he would have.

Ivan was God. Toris was his brother.

Breaking the contact, Toris turned his head and continued his conversation as if nothing had happened, and Ludwig looked up at the sky, and waited.

Waiting. Just waiting. All he could really do. The language barrier prevented him from being like Toris and Ivan and conversing casually with other officers.

Other officers. Like he was one of them.

Sometimes...

His head hurt.

Sometimes being somebody was almost as scary as being nobody.

Ivan started to wander farther and farther away.

The second Ivan left to go off and speak to the men waiting beyond and was out of sight, Toris ended the conversation and sped over to him, and grabbed a fistful of his sleeve, hissing quietly, "Ludwig! Are you alright? Huh? You okay?"

He stood there for a second, too numb to react. He didn't know what to do. He was out of his element. He was a little excited. He was a little scared.

But, for all of it, he was alright. So, finally, he nodded his head.

Toris just stared out him with wide eyes and a low brow; a look of disbelief. Or maybe horror.

The hand tugged his sleeve, and Toris dragged him off towards a car, where they were out of earshot from the others.

Toris worried too much. He should try to relax a little, every now and again.

A warm hand fell on his shoulder.

"You're alright? Are you sure?"

He nodded again, and tried to appear easygoing, even as the nervousness crept up.

Toris still looked so _worried_.

"I'm glad. I was... I thought something had happened to you. If you ever need me, don't wait until something happens to call, got it?"

"Yeah."

Toris looked him up and down, and reached up to tug irritably at his collar as he furrowed his brow.

"Well! I am glad you're alright. What happened last night?"

He didn't really want to speak about it, not all of it, and simply said, "Pavlov backed out."

Luckily, Toris seemed to understand very well the implication, and shook his head.

"And left it all on you, huh?" he muttered, a bit bitterly, and Ludwig just shrugged.

No changing it. He could rise up to this occasion, if he really tried.

"It's alright. I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later, huh? I mean... You do this all the time, don't you?"

Toris looked at him with an expression that he couldn't place. As if he had said something very odd.

What?

Toris opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out, and in the end he only shook his head again and looked around.

Ivan was coming back.

Toris withdrew his hand, sent him one last look, and then went to Ivan's side. Together, they passed by each and every tank, no doubt relaying plans and orders.

Ludwig stood behind, alone and awkward, and felt so out of place.

He didn't know what to do. So, he just stood still, and tried to emulate what he saw.

He watched Toris more than Ivan, because it was easier to feel like he could manage to perform the actions that Toris did.

Since Ivan was God? Kinda hard to even think of following in his footsteps.

He watched Toris, who walked straight and sure and kept one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side, who kept his shoulders squared and chin high and expression blank.

Toris was easier to imitate.

His observation was cut short suddenly, when Toris disappeared within the group and Ivan suddenly reappeared much closer than before, striding towards him with a smile.

He fell still, and tried to appear unfazed. He tucked a hand in his pocket.

Toris made it look easy.

His heart was thudding.

Ivan settled in next to him where he stood, and turned to stare off in the distance, folding his arms behind his back.

"Well. Everything's set. We're about ready to move. We're going off in three groups. Get them all around, you know."

He tried to speak, failed, and only nodded.

It was almost time. And his nervousness had turned into something more like horror.

He had been confident before.

Standing here now, with it all so close and so _real_, it was harder to believe in himself. Better to stick close to Ivan's side, and just watch.

Ivan expected too much of him.

"Ludwig."

He looked up at Ivan's voice, and straightened up at attention as Toris had taught him.

In the field, Ivan wasn't Ivan. He was the general. The boss.

"There are three groups. Three commanding officers. You, Toris, and myself."

A horrible sinking in stomach. He understood.

Oh, _no_.

Ivan, staring straight ahead, arms still behind his back, only lifted his brow.

"Left or right?"

Too stunned for a minute to really comprehend, he only furrowed his brow, and looked around.

Left or right.

Ivan looked over at him, now, and his smile was still there. A good sign.

"Well? Do you want the left or the right? Toris is center." Ivan tilted his head up to the waiting town. "Left is mostly forest. Right is field and houses. They need to be run out. They'll run into the forest once it all starts. They've got a little 'barricade' or some such off in the center, but that's no problem! The tanks will run it right over. So. Left or right? You choose one, and I'll take the other. We meet Toris in the center. Which is it?"

It was just a choice. Left or right.

"The field will take longer, for the houses."

Just a choice, and Ivan was nudging him towards the easier direction.

And so he didn't really know why his chest suddenly threatened to clench up, and why he had to tuck his hands deep in his pockets so that Ivan wouldn't see them shaking.

Left. Forest.

Right. Field.

_Oh_. Couldn't they have just stayed together? He didn't want to go off alone.

Ivan was waiting. No choice. Orders were orders. He had to decide.

Bracing his boots in the mud, he cracked his knuckles against his thighs, absently, and finally said, "Left. I'll go left."

"Left it is."

Ivan reached out, clapped him on the back, and then walked off.

And Ludwig was alone.

Alone.

Ivan was gone.

He could have held it together well if Ivan had just stuck with him, he _knew _he could have. But alone...

His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely keep them in his pockets.

Ivan's section suddenly started rolling out. Toris' was already gone.

Oh, shit.

Whirling around on his heel, adrenaline the only thing keeping him standing upright, he stalked over to his own half as fast as he could, and even when they looked at him at perfect attention, awaiting his orders, he just felt _sick_.

He just wanted to go back home all of a sudden.

Maybe Toris had been right all along. He shouldn't have come to Moscow. He wasn't ready. He wasn't unshakeable like Ivan and seasoned like Toris. He couldn't hold his own out here.

He didn't know what to do.

But they were watching him, and Ivan was already gone, and the trees were swaying in the breeze as the sky turned ever darker.

He had to try. Time to go. The left was his. Ivan was counting on him.

The men watched him as he approached, and since there was a language barrier, he did what he had seen Toris do when telling men where to go; he raised two fingers, and pointed straight at the forest.

Luckily, these experienced soldiers seemed to know exactly what to do, and everyone started moving.

He was glad. Easy enough. He followed behind, even though he wasn't really sure if he should.

Officers such as Ivan and Toris and himself shouldn't really have been doing field work like this, not on the frontlines, but Ivan wanted to test him out, so he really didn't have a choice.

He followed them.

The trees rose up all around him. As soon as stepped into the forest, where light was all but gone and the air was very different, he felt a sense of something almost like foreboding.

Wandering into these ancient forests with dark intentions...

A bad start to every single bedtime story ever written.

The wind didn't reach deep into the trees, and everything became still. The soldiers pushed forward ahead, guns ready before them, stepping carefully and quietly and keeping a good eye on their surroundings.

Once the battle started out in the open, they would flee into the forests. Maybe some of them were here already, waiting in the dark for them to step near. Maybe they had set up an ambush.

Every noise within the forest seemed suddenly ominous. At least out in the field, it was easier to see what was going on around them.

In here, restricted by the trees, it was harder to maneuver and harder to see and harder to focus or pinpoint movement.

He put his feet down as lightly as possible upon the forest floor, careful not to make much noise, but every so often a twig snapped underneath someone's boots, and every time it happened he tensed up and looked around in silent alarm, afraid they would be heard.

But nothing happened.

The forest was huge.

How could they possibly be expected to keep watch over the entire thing? They should have split off into a line and expanded their visual capabilities.

But he didn't know how to say it, so he kept quiet and followed behind.

Footsteps over the pine needles. Patches of snow, here and there. It was cold.

Some of the soldiers held low conversations with friends under their breath, and sometimes they looked back at him as if contemplating engaging him, but he neatly avoided their gazes and kept his brow low.

Maybe they'd go back later on, and say that he was too serious. Oh, well. Not the worst thing they could say about him.

He just hoped they wouldn't say that he was incompetent.

Even though he was.

They walked on, the trees passing by without great event, and with every step, he hoped that maybe Toris' center had simply blocked anyone from fleeing into the forests.

That would _really _make his job easy.

Oh, God, he wasn't expected to actually take out his gun and shoot, was he? He was just here to lead them through the forest, right? That was it. It was their job to shoot. Not his.

Minutes passed within the trees, and he wondered if the villagers had any tales about this place, any stories or legends. He wondered if anything lived out here. Monsters or spirits or demons. Forests were strange places.

Lost in mist.

Or maybe his head was the misty one.

The headache was a growing twinge behind his eyes.

Everything was quiet. Calm.

The trees had a pleasant, musky aroma. The branches above shifted with the fluttering of birds, woken from sleep by their movements.

Peaceful.

This forest was not frightening, not like the one back home.

There weren't any tigers here, ready to leap out of the shadows and grab someone by the neck and drag them off.

Just a normal forest, uncut and not bothered by humans. He was right to choose the forest. Better than the fields, maybe, if only because it was so empty.

Some of the soldiers had fallen behind him, keeping an eye on the flank.

They knew what they were doing. This was nothing for them. Maybe they longed to impress as much as he did.

Something shifted off to the side.

He turned his head.

The silence was suddenly and randomly shattered.

An explosion.

A great noise to his left startled him so that he jumped, and when he looked over, bristling in alarm and eyes wide, he saw that the soldiers under his command had started to open fire.

The birds fled.

For a moment, dazed and uncomprehending, he tried to raise his hand, to say, 'Stop, you idiots, they'll hear us!'

But then he heard shots on the right, and he realized that the forest was not empty.

They were not alone.

He stood frozen, as sparks of light and fire lit up the darkness of the forest. He should have gotten down, but he was stuck in place. Mindlessly, absurdly, he took his gun out of his belt and gripped it for dear life.

Ha. As if this little pistol stood a chance against sub-machine guns. Oh, man. He remembered suddenly the very first time Toris had hooked the gun onto his belt.

_I_ _hope you don't think it's loaded!_

He looked down, at the steel gleaming in the dim light of the dying day outside, and for an awful second he almost started giggling.

Fuckin' gun might not have even been loaded. Ivan had sent him out here without any defense. As if Ivan just expected him to walk out of this whole thing unscathed.

Alive.

Ivan didn't seem to think he could die. Easy for Ivan, who may or may not have been immortal, but he was very much human, and very much capable of getting shot and bleeding to death.

This was _not _what he had expected.

He didn't know exactly what he had expected. But not this. Not being caught in the middle of a field of bullets.

He was too stunned to even bend down or get behind a tree.

Shouting.

He stood there, unmoving and unbending, as the gunfire erupted all around, and he could only watch the soldiers, and admire, however blearily, their fearlessness.

Their bravery.

They pushed forward in the forest, even in the dark, and didn't really seem to mind that people were shooting at them.

As the shock started to wear off a little, he managed to focus his eyes and ears, and hear differences.

Quick fire to slow fire. Different sounds of discharge. The students weren't shooting with machine guns. Pistols, and maybe rifles.

No match.

He couldn't really see them, not for the dim light and his own daze, and he was glad for that. He'd rather not see them fall.

He kept his eyes instead on his own soldiers. None of them had fallen.

Not a single one. Good.

Would Ivan judge him on how many soldiers he brought out of the forest alive? Did a dead soldier subtract a few points?

...should that thought have even crossed his mind?

No.

But it was so much easier to take himself out of this situation and look at everything as just numbers, and not people. It made it a hell of a lot easier. Instead of a dead man, it was just one down. Two down. Three down.

So forth.

Easier.

He didn't look at the students.

The gunfire suddenly stopped, as quickly and randomly as it had begun.

Silence.

He thought he heard a strange cry from within the trees.

The sound of death.

He pushed it aside, and stared ahead. As he stood there, tall and unmoving in the line of fire, a soldier suddenly passed him, and fell to a halt right beside of him. He looked over, dumbly, and the soldier lowered his gun, strapped around him by the shoulder, to his waist, and he sent Ludwig a great smile and a deep laugh, and then, predicting the miscommunication, he gave a thumbs up.

Good job. For what?

Or maybe, 'you've got a lot of balls for just standing there while they're shooting all over the place.'

He wasn't brave—he was just too stunned and too dazed to move.

Too damn stupid to duck for cover.

The soldier suddenly saluted him then, still smiling in that cheeky way, and the movement was enough to break through the stupor and remind him that he couldn't stall and he couldn't waver, because Ivan had left him in charge of these men, and he was a colonel now.

He couldn't falter. He couldn't freeze.

And if Ivan said he couldn't die, then he couldn't.

This was _his _group. He had chosen them. Even though they knew what to do, he still needed to try and keep in charge of things. Being in charge of things had seemed so damn amazing yesterday. Now? Not quite so much. Too much goddamn pressure.

The gunfire had startled him. He'd never heard anything like it.

He tried his best anyway, and placed his gun back in its holster, and with a sudden squaring of his shoulders, he gave the soldier a quick nod and then pushed off into the trees.

The only thing he really knew to do was try to get ahead of the group once he caught up to them and try to pretend like he knew what the fuck he was doing.

Speaking Russian would make this a hell of a lot easier. Oh, well. There was no helping that.

He ran through the trees as fast as his unsteady legs would allow him, the soldier that had stopped with him hot on his heels.

The farther he walked, there was more gunfire. Not as intense as the first time.

He didn't bother to keep his hand above his gun; he wasn't sure it was even loaded, and if it was, then he wasn't even sure that he could pull the trigger. He'd flunked that test once already.

He wound through the trees, passing some of his soldiers on the way. How many did he even have?

Fifty or so?

The gunfire ahead was starting to slow, as he ducked and shoved his way through low-hanging branches, patches of snow and dead leaves crunching beneath his boots as he went, and it seemed now with every long stride he was passing by another soldier.

Another, and then some more, and then the gunfire stopped altogether, and he fell to a complete stop when he realized that he had gotten back ahead. At the front of the pack.

He turned around, trying to get his bearings, and felt the old rush of adrenaline.

The soldiers were behind him, standing still, guns in their hands and waiting for him to order them. Oh God. What now? He hated them watching him like that, like they were expecting something great from him.

He had no clue. No clue.

But, like Ivan said, it was just a game.

They stood there, dozens and dozens, and he stared right back at them, and he was glad that he had this uniform, because otherwise they might have just walked off and left him there with exasperation. He could see them looking at each other, waiting.

Ivan was waiting, too.

Right.

He straightened up and set his feet, and asked, as loudly as he dared, "Anyone speak German?"

No one raised their hand. Just looks of blankness.

Alright.

"Anyone speak English?"

He looked them over, and oh, Christ, never had he been so relieved to see someone raise their fuckin' hand.

He was no English scholar, that was for sure, but he'd learned enough to fumble at least _this_.

He'd learned. From who?

_Better dead than Red!_

Did it matter? Nope. He was too busy to think.

He waved the soldier over with an errant hand, trying for all the world to look like this was exceedingly boring, and when the man stopped at his side and saluted, he reached out and grabbed him by the arm, maybe a little too forcefully.

The soldier lowered his salute, and said, in a low, apprehensive whisper, "I only speak, ah, a _little_?"

"Me too," he replied, as he tugged him over close enough to where he could speak quietly.

He could do this. He could. All he had ever wanted in his life was for someone to be proud of him.

He could impress Ivan with this. Just by not choking.

With the thought of a proud Ivan in his head, he leaned his head in towards the soldier's and said, hiding the anxiety very well, "We split up in three. One goes up, one goes down. One goes front, with me."

Mimicking Ivan and Toris. Easy enough.

"Yes, sir!"

Sir. Damn right, _sir_.

...this was kinda neat.

Despite the awful sounds of gunfire. He hadn't _seen _anything, not really. So it wasn't so bad.

He just had to live up in his head, and keep his eyes turned away. The ends justified the means. In this case, these awful deeds were worth it, all worth it, if Ivan just thought highly of him.

He could live with that, in the end.

If he tried.

The soldier was already dividing the men into groups.

At the last second, Ludwig stepped up next to him and said, "You're comin' with me."

"Yes, colonel."

"Clear the forest. Meet up at the front of the trees."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's go."

A quick translation, and they set off.

This time, he didn't freeze, and stayed up front, walking at the side of the soldier who could understand him (if only a little), the others walking quietly behind.

Maybe he should have stayed behind the guns, but, well, he wouldn't lie. He wanted word to get back to Ivan that he had walked in front, with no weapon in hand. Because that was a good thing, right? He wanted them to respect him. He had never been anyone.

Being so important all of a sudden was probably not the best thing for his ego.

His pride would kill him one day.

Assuming Ivan would allow it.

The others were gone, lost in the trees and their stealth, and Ludwig could only walk straight ahead, and hope that he was doing the right thing.

There wasn't really all that much else that he could think of doing. Tanks couldn't fit inside the trees. Manpower was all he could use out here, and there weren't that many students out here anyway.

He was grateful for that. He had made the right decision by coming into the forest.

They walked forward, keeping a mind of their silence, and after a while, he started to feel as though maybe he had been a little ridiculous earlier, for freezing up like he did.

This wasn't really so hard. As long as kept on a straight path. He'd done harder things than this.

It wasn't like he was alone. Ivan and Toris weren't here, sure, but he had backup in the form of the Soviet Army.

That was more than enough.

It seemed highly unlikely that any of the unorganized and untrained students would be able to get close enough to him to put him in harm's way with all of the soldiers around.

He wasn't so worried.

Not for himself. Not about dying. Not all that much. He'd have been worried if there had been a complete language barrier.

Then, there might have been a problem. He was just lucky. Well, sometimes the world relied on luck.

Except Ivan.

He wasn't worried about himself.

There was just something else nagging him, underneath the surface...

Something he couldn't quite grasp.

They kept pushing forward through the trees, the soldiers behind him chatting quietly amongst themselves about who knew what, and with every uneventful footstep he loosened up a little more.

So long he'd sat in that car feeling sick, but this wasn't all that bad. The boost to his self-worth and self-confidence was more than welcome.

One of the soldiers behind burst into quiet giggles, surely at some dumb joke, and by now he had to squint a little to see around him, as the day continued to die.

The soldier at his side stopped sometimes and tilted his head, when he thought he heard something, but in the end he always carried on without event.

So far, so good. He let his mind wander.

The smell of the forest was damp and musty. The air was cold. Humidity was high.

For it all, he'd rather be home. He had gotten used to the freezing, dry, clean air of Mirny.

It was a little strange out here.

The forest was nice though, or would have been, had he been exploring it under different circumstances.

After all of this, after these weeks in Moscow were over, he wouldn't need to leave home again for a long time.

Home.

When had Mirny become home?

He couldn't exactly remember. Not that he really needed to; as far as Ivan was concerned, Mirny had been home since the instant he had first walked through the door.

He would have been content to let his mind wander as it would, had there not been a sudden interruption.

Sounds.

Footsteps.

He stopped now, as did the soldier beside him, and perked up his eyes as he attempted to pinpoint.

He didn't really have much time.

Footsteps broke over the silence, louder and louder, and when three or four men suddenly burst through the trees, he barely even had time to react before the explosions started and the bullets whizzed through the branches.

Yeah, he should have stayed behind the guns; one bullet came so close that it ripped the embroidery on his shoulder.

A brief heat on his skin.

Shouts.

It happened very quickly. One second, bursts of movement and noise. The next, nothing.

The fleeing students, all gunned down in quick succession, fell down in the snow and leaves. They didn't move. They fell right in front of him. He couldn't _help _but see them. Even if he didn't want to.

He looked down at himself, feeling as though everything were suddenly in slow motion, and when he noticed the rip on his shoulder patch, there was a horrible, burning rush of anger.

Oh, _God_. Oh God.

He couldn't—

Anger.

Whirling around, he stomped his foot on the ground and barked, in the harshest voice he'd heard himself use in years, "Who _did _that?"

Ivan, perhaps, would have pulled his gun out and shot whoever dared to nick him.

The closest he'd ever come to being shot.

They gawked at him in obvious alarm, shifting their guns and shuffling their feet, but no one copped up, and oh, Christ _almighty _he couldn't even keep his chest still he was _so _angry.

He wasn't angry over the uniform.

He wasn't angry over the brush with a bullet.

He wasn't angry at any of them.

He was angry at _everything_.

A horrible feeling, that he couldn't place, and he hadn't been _so _angry in so long, and his chest suddenly ached and his head hurt like hell.

Students.

He was so angry. And not understanding _why _was the worst part.

A terrible image in his mind, of a group of students, sitting around a table and plotting to overthrow the government, laughing and joking and playing with guns, and amongst them sat a man with a gruff voice and tired eyes and hair so pale that it shone out silver in the lights above, older than the rest and yet still laughing like a little kid, thinking he could get away with such _stupid _things—

Oh, he felt dizzy all of a sudden.

Reaching up to place an irritable hand on the back of his neck, he turned back around, where the students lied there on the ground, and the only reason he managed to take a step then and carry on was because he was gonna be _sick _if he stood there and stared at them.

Dumb kids. What did they think they could accomplish?

He stepped over them. He had to go.

He wanted that feeling of anger and something else to go away. He wanted that imagine in his head to go away.

Because _that man _didn't belong in his head anymore.

Not anymore.

He shouldn't have been thinking about _him_. He shouldn't have been thinking about what if it had been _him _out here, if it had been _him_...

It wasn't. So it didn't matter.

He walked as quickly as he could, his long legs serving him well in keeping a pace ahead of the others, and he was glad for that because they wouldn't be able to see the look on his face as he struggled with the sudden urge to burst into tears.

So long he had striven out here to rid himself of uncertainty.

Feeling it again was unpleasant. Feeling as if something was not right. As if what he was doing was not right.

He hated that feeling.

Maybe Ivan had trusted him with this too soon.

There were more shadows and more footsteps as he sought desperately the edge of the forest, but he paid no mind to them, trying to force himself to lose his thoughts, and when the gunfire erupted on either side of him and bodies fell close enough to feel the air shift, he did not stray.

He kept walking. He didn't stop. He couldn't.

And he didn't look. One thing he had learned well from Toris.

The gunshots made his ears ring, as close by to him as they were, and this time, no more stray bullets; the soldiers had widened the distance between them so as not to nick him as they shot above his shoulders.

If he hadn't felt so light-headed, he might have been pleased that they were afraid of angering him. Since he had come with Ivan, he could only be assumed to be the same as Ivan.

They didn't want to cross him.

He stalked onward, searching for the break in the trees.

Students. What did they know? Thinking they could ever prepare for this. Not for this army. No one could. History had proven that. They had never stood a chance.

Dim light.

He just didn't look down.

They fell below the level of his eyesight. He couldn't see them.

He kept walking. He was close.

_Look at you._

The gunfire seemed far away as he tried to focus on finding the edge.

Don't look.

The dead leaves under his boots were soft; yielding. He kept walking. Salvation soon.

Don't look.

_Who are you?_

As soon as he made it out of these woods, it would be done. He would have completed his first mission. Successfully.

And it would all be worth it.

It _had _to be worth it.

This dusky forest in twilight, the scent of snow and pine, the feel of branches and bark beneath his hands, the damp aroma of fallen leaves, the obstacles in his path, the whispering behind him, the gunshots all around, the trees closing in all around him, the rustling of the breeze moving the branches above, the coldness of the air and the awful clamminess in his palms.

It would be worth it.

He was certain he could forget the horrible feeling as soon as he saw Ivan. All problems were solved simply by seeing Ivan.

The sooner the better.

He sped his pace until he was sprinting for the forest's edge, as fast as he could, seeking the end of this night.

Light. The edge was near. He could see it, in the light bursting through the trees, and in the smell of the air.

Close.

He ran, as fast as he could. The soldiers followed behind, and there were no more students that crossed their paths.

Thank God.

And when he broke free of the forest, and burst into the field, he could have cried for the relief.

Oh, thank _God_.

The center.

He had reached the center. He'd done it. He'd made it. His side was clear.

And just like that, those horrible thoughts and feelings brought on by the dark forest were gone.

The image of _him _was gone.

As soon as his feet hit the clearing, he broke into a great, breathless smile, feeling somehow as though, by breaking through the forest, he had conquered the Earth itself.

The wind was back.

He placed a quivering hand on his hip, and nearly laughed.

Absolute exhilaration. He'd done it, all on his own.

Granted, he hadn't used his gun, but that hadn't been his job. His job had just been to lead the soldiers and utilize them in a manner that made the forest impossible to pass through. And he thought, in just that, that he had done a pretty _damn _good job.

For his first time. He'd get better.

Once he got the hang of it.

The other soldiers were coming out of the trees, too, up and down, and keeping themselves planted on the forest line, to make sure no one else passed.

The forest was clear. He had done it. All on his own.

It was worth it. All he had had to do was just not look down. Not so hard.

The darkness of the forest had been a blessing. He had been right to choose left. He reached up to clear his forehead of the sheen of sweat from his sprint, and looked around.

Toris and Ivan were not here. He'd finished first.

His smile widened in another burst of exhilaration. It had been one thing to finish, but to get here first was a damn amazing thing. Maybe Ivan had led him, somehow or another, into the easiest path. If so, then it was alright. It was only his first time.

He turned around, to the soldier that understood him, and said, "Get back in. Wait inside the trees in a line. Make sure no one passes."

They did as they were told, and vanished in the trees.

The forest was impassible. He had made it that way.

Turning back around, he gazed out at the field. Maybe he could go over, and join Ivan. His side was clear. Why not?

He looked around.

And when he saw the field, really _saw _it, when the adrenaline of success faded and the thrill of victory subsided, when every feeling of excitement waned down into a dull throb, when his eyes adjusted, when he _saw _it, his smile fell as quickly as it had come.

Fire.

The smell of gunpowder, mingled with smoke and snow and pine, and something else.

Something sharp. Metallic.

Blood.

The field was on fire.

And so were the houses.

He didn't know why he walked, then, but he did, and he found himself stepping through the high grass, walking towards the fires even as people ran past him to get away.

Villagers brushed by him, seeking refuge from the flames.

Hypnotized, he pushed through the weeds, and into the clearing.

Dead grass and melting snow beneath his feet.

He stared up at the sky, as black smoke rose up, glowing by the light of the fire.

Embers drifted up and down in the breeze.

He couldn't look away. Mesmerized.

Sounds came in and out.

He tore his eyes from the sky, and turned them to the houses.

Two soldiers stood off in front of one house, flamethrowers strapped on their backs and lighting up cigarettes as the flames passed from a neighboring building onto the residence. They just stood there, and watched it go up as they talked to each other.

He looked to the other side.

A small group of students were in a standoff with an equally small group of soldiers. They were shouting at each other, each of them waving their guns threateningly in the air as they tried to get the other to back down. But, like Stalin had once said, it takes a brave man to be a coward in the Red Army, and the soldiers opened fire first, gunning all of the students down before they could even pull their triggers.

There was no compromising with this army. No overpowering. No running.

He turned his eyes.

A woman ran into the field, dragging her child by the hand. He lost sight of them as they entered the high grass, towards the forest.

Why hadn't they run earlier? Why hadn't the students gotten all of the villagers _out_, knowing that this would happen as they had? If they had looked hard enough, couldn't they have found a way around the military blocks?

Why had they held their ground? In a stupid, naïve attempt to protect their houses? Because they were stubborn? Because the original raid had never come to be on the night it should have, and so they had let down their guard?

Why? Why had they stayed?

He didn't understand.

A great blast from the right drew his eyes.

A tank, the gun atop it smoking, was barreling towards a building, where students were on the second level, trying to get in some shots.

The gun on the tank had lit up the bottom level with fire.

There was no way back down. The students tried to climb out the window. The soldiers in the tank pushed open the hatch, raised themselves up, and opened fire. Some of them fell before the bullets struck them, and bolted as fast they could.

A soldier with a flamethrower waited.

Fire.

Wasn't this overkill? Why so much, for so few?

Why?

Oh.

Because he had divided it up this way, back in Ivan's office at home. He had decided on this many men, and this many tanks.

_He _had done this. Him. His decision. So that Ivan would be proud of him.

It had worked.

And there was absolutely no chance of escape from this village. No one would leave alive. He had made that decision. It had been so much easier thousands of miles away, where he would never see it.

Where was Ivan?

Why not just shoot them, quick and easy? Why bring the flamethrowers? To make a statement? To crush the spirits of other groups? To make it known that in the Soviet Union dissenters would pay the ultimate price?

He stood there, and just watched as clothes caught fire and desperate kids tried to drop and put out the flames, only to be shot where they lied.

Some of them ran off into the other forest, on fire as they were.

Screeching. Awful sounds.

He should have stayed back on his side. This part had not been his job. He should not have come over here. He had done his job. Why strive to do Ivan's, too? Now he was stuck, trapped in this lurid scene by morbid fascination.

He couldn't look away. He had never seen anything like it.

And, oh God...

He had never wanted to.

Too late.

He had done this. He couldn't look away.

Why had the students come here? Didn't they know they could bring things like this down on those who harbored them? Didn't the village understand the risk of hiding them here? Did they know that they were suffering now because _he _had wanted to impress someone?

He looked to the left.

A student tried to outrun a soldier, who followed her through the brush, shooting. But he missed her, again and again, and she slipped inside of a house in desperation, barring the door and no doubt hiding under a table or inside a closet. She had not escaped; the soldier shot out the lock, and kicked open the door. A shrill cry from within. Gunfire.

Silence.

The soldier walked out. The girl did not.

Ivan's orders—no survivors.

Out in front of one tank, a group of soldiers had gathered, their rifles slung over their backs as they laughed to each other, oblivious to the hellfire behind them, having completed their section of houses. Time to relax. They carried on a conversation as though all were right in the world, passing around a cigarette.

Where was Toris? Below the hill, still clearing out the last of the makeshift barricade?

Fire all around.

The heat melted the snow and created a muddy patch of earth.

Beams fell from the burning houses.

A soldier suddenly came up to him, holding a lighter in his teeth, and offered him a cigarette. He looked at him, dumbly, and shook his head. The soldier wandered off. Ludwig could hear him humming.

Desensitized. All of them. They had been trained this way.

He had not.

His uniform felt too tight. Hot.

Sounds all around. The whir of tanks, the pops of guns, the chatter of soldiers, the roar of the flames. Something else.

Screaming.

He tried to keep his chin up high, as he walked on without destination. He feet seemed to be leading him in circles. His hands were clenched in the fabric of his shirt.

Gunshots from within the trees that lied on the other side.

Tanks.

He started pacing this way and that, in a last ditch attempt to keep his stomach still. He was starting to lose composure.

Awful shrieking.

A horrible smell.

Fires within the trees and brush on the other end.

Someone caught fire, and when he couldn't put out the flames, he threw himself down in front of a soldier and shouted, pleading and crying. Ludwig didn't understand the screeches above the wind, and he was glad. He got the gist of it though.

_Oh, God, please shoot me, please shoot me, I'm burning, oh Jesus, please don't let me burn, shoot me, shoot me, shoot me now, oh God, shoot me_—

A single shot. The man fell. The only mercy he had seen today. To be shot quickly instead of left to burn to death.

His hands were shaking. Trembling. He was trembling.

And suddenly he could _feel _it.

It came out of nowhere. It had been so long since he had had one, but he wouldn't ever forget the way it felt. He could forget many things out here, so many things...

But not that.

A panic attack.

He tried to fight it.

He dug his heels into the muddy ground in a pitiful attempt to stop the tremble. It just got stronger. He shook his head to clear it.

The trees were swaying to and fro, spurned on by the wind created by the great flames that lurched up above the horizon, swirling and dancing in the darkening skies.

Ash floated down. It dusted his shoulders.

A pain in his chest. A horrible rush of fear.

Anxiety.

He looked around, helplessly, as the edges of his vision started blurring. Where was Ivan? Where was Toris?

Oh, God, he had thought that he had left these panic attacks back _there_. He had thought he would never have one again, not again, and not out here.

The first time he had ever had one had been an exceedingly traumatic event, and he had been _certain _then, seventeen and otherwise healthy, that he had been dying. He had thought he was having some kind of heart-attack, or a complete nervous breakdown.

He wouldn't ever forget that awful feeling. The way it all came creeping up on him. The way it couldn't be stopped.

No stopping it.

And he could feel it coming now.

Too cold all of a sudden. Claustrophobia. The air was growing thin.

That awful screaming.

The smoke turned an already dark evening even darker, and it may as well have been midnight for the way it looked.

Lit up only by fire.

Somewhere, he couldn't see where, a baby was crying.

An endless, agonized moaning from within the brush.

The air was ever thinning. Like he was up in space.

He was glad that the soldiers he had led in the forest had stayed on the other side of the field, where they were too far away to see him starting to panic. At least he could stay impressive in their eyes. Anyone who looked at him now, however...

He started pacing again, relentlessly.

The tanks gleamed in the firelight. The roof of a burning house suddenly collapsed down from above, blocking any possible escapes.

The baby stopped crying.

He reached up to tug irritably at his collar that suddenly felt far too tight, and his cheeks were flushed now with a great rush of heat that went all the way down to his neck.

Smoke all the way up to the emerging stars. Gunfire, quick and frequent, all around. The sound of the tanks barreling straight over any and all obstacles.

He started sweating, despite the cold air.

The fire was bright. Red. Orange glows all around.

Oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh no, it was coming up, he could _feel _it.

No, no, no.

Panic.

Embers floating.

He staggered when he shook his head to clear it; dizziness. He breathed far too quickly, as air become harder to find.

A sudden rush of nausea. He lost sense of time and place.

Static.

_Into this wild abyss the wary fiend_—

His eyes hurt. His fingers started to tingle at the tips.

He turned his gaze back and forth across the vast forest.

The movements were blurry. Vague. He felt far away. Distant.

Floating into space.

His teeth clenched suddenly, in an effort to keep from dissolving into hyperventilation.

Shadows played all around as the flames danced. The wind got stronger.

He couldn't think.

Time slowed.

—_Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while—_

A loud commotion at his side.

He looked over; everything seemed bland, and far away. Hardly any color. Like he was looking through marbled glass.

A young man was fleeing the flames, bullets falling all around his feet, and he ducked and dodged this way and that, crossing the field and running into the trees and winding into the trunks.

But he ran into the wrong side of the forest.

He ran into Ludwig's side. Ludwig watched, frozen in place, knowing damn well that soldiers were waiting within. He had positioned them there.

Gunshots. A dull, pained groan. A thud.

Silence.

Slower and slower and slower. Time got slower.

His feet were numb.

His collar was _suffocating _him.

He tugged at it, only to realize that it was completely unbuttoned, all the way down to below his collarbone.

—_Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith—_

A strange, strangled noise at his other side.

He looked.

In the threshold of a burning house stood an old woman, her wrinkled hands cupping her face as she screamed, staring up at everything she owned in the world going up in flames. Shrieking. Heart-broken. She tried to go back in, in some foolish attempt to save personal belongings.

She was right there. Right there in front of him. He could have gone to her. He tried to move forward, to grab her and pull her back.

But he couldn't move.

He couldn't seem to breathe. He could barely see. He stayed still. His feet were stuck in the mud.

She went back in, shielding her face with her hands. And he stood there in dumb, dazed stillness, staring at the doorframe for what felt like hours.

Eternity.

She didn't come back out.

He looked back, straight ahead, and felt the tremble growing ever stronger.

Cold sweat dripped down his neck.

A sense of horrible, inescapable finality.

Finality.

—_He had to cross._

The river to hell. He had _tried _to cross. He had given it everything he possessed. Every ounce of it. He tried _so _hard.

But his chest just kept getting tighter and tighter.

A movement close by startled him. He looked around.

Nothing.

A whisper, close by.

It took a while for his lethargic mind to comprehend.

The sky was dark.

He looked down.

A student had fallen right before him, and was lying there, on her back, staring up at him as she attempted to reach up and grab his pant-leg. She was whispering to him.

He opened his mouth.

She was staring at him.

Nothing came out.

And he stood there, thinking about what to do, but coming up with nothing, and as her fingers tugged at his pants and as she spit up blood, he just _stood _there.

He didn't move. Couldn't find his feet.

Their eyes suddenly met. Her eyes were blue, too.

They stared at each other. She tried to smile, as though his silence was somehow hopeful. That maybe he would help her. Spare her. Declare her a prisoner, and keep her alive by doing so.

_Help me._

Her teeth were stained red. She had pretty hair. A tug on his pants. She opened her mouth to speak.

_Bang_.

A great burst of thunder.

She lurched upward, gave a great gasp, and fell still.

Blood soaked her dirty shirt, and drops of it had splattered on his legs. Her hand fell from his pants.

And immediately, he looked down at his own hands, terrified that he would see a smoking gun there within them, that maybe he had taken his gun out of its holster and pointed it at her and fired it without even realizing that he was moving at all.

He looked down.

His hands were empty. But they were shaking.

He looked back up. A familiar face stood there beside of him, placing a gun back into his coat.

A look of worry.

"Hey. Are you alright?"

The words were garbled. Distant. He didn't comprehend.

But he knew that voice.

Ivan. Ivan had come back.

He met Ivan's eyes, and he tried to speak, but it was too late.

Too late.

The loud gunshot in his ear had done him in. It was coming. Time went from a slow, endless lurch, to a complete halt.

Time stopped. And that was it. The beginning of the end.

It started.

He reached up to grab at his collar when all air stopped. He couldn't breathe. He fell backwards.

And there it was.

The world closed in.

Panic.

Panic.

He was having a panic attack. The first in _so _long. No more pills.

He fell back into the dirt, clutching helplessly at the front of his shirt. No air. Nothing.

Everything went dark.

Fumbling around in an attempt to stand, he only wound up on his knees, fingers gripping mud as he tried in vain to breathe. His lungs were empty. Nothing.

Ivan was on top of him in an instant, those fingers of steel grabbing either wrist and yanking him backwards with fervor.

The panic intensified.

Oh, _God_, _oh _God, he'd messed everything up so bad this time, he'd gotten it all wrong, he'd been far too confident, too eager to please, too goddamn stupid, and oh Jesus, Ivan was going to be so disappointed.

So angry.

He had let Ivan down. So long now he had taken comfort in Ivan's hands.

But not now.

Feeling Ivan's hands upon him only made the attack intensify. Because Ivan was going to fuck him over good, he knew it, because Ivan had trusted him with this, Ivan had let him do this all on his own, and he had ruined it.

He had done nothing. He had stood there, immobile.

Frozen.

Ivan was going to throttle the life out of him.

In a blind, breathless panic, he tried to flee from Ivan's arms as they wrapped around his chest, in the flight response brought on by the bursts of adrenaline in his veins.

He had to get away.

Ivan held fast.

He tried to pull free, but he just couldn't breathe, and everything was getting so far away, and Ivan was too strong. He couldn't escape. He was stuck.

He felt like he was dying. Or going crazy. Maybe both.

Ivan was going to raise up his fist any minute now, he knew it, and strike him across the face and shake him and say, 'What the hell is _wrong _with you?'

There was nothing he could do about it. Helpless. Overpowered. Overwhelmed.

Sick.

No air.

He waited, as time stood still.

Ivan did not yank him backwards and toss him into the mud with spite. Ivan did not whirl him around and strike him across the face. Ivan did not grab his shoulders and shake him. No curses, no slaps, no angry chiding, no foul looks or merciless grips.

No disappointed headshake. No sigh of exasperation. No muttered reprimands.

Rather, as his vision started to bleed black and the sounds around him became all the more distant and hollow, there was a warm, very gentle hand upon his back, sliding up and down in slow, soothing motions. Up and down. Strokes of warmth, felt from even beneath the thick fabric of his uniform. Another hand was upon his chest, holding him upright and the only thing keeping him from collapsing down onto the ground. Fingers raising up and digging gingerly under his collar and kneading skin. First his neck, and then his collarbone, and then above his heart. Fluid, circular motions. A nose pressing into his hair. Lips brushing his ear.

No air.

Whooshing in his ears. Blood pounding in his temples. A stinging, aching throb behind his eyes.

A strange, unsettling sense of dry-drowning, as he gasped for air and couldn't seem to find any.

The hand that was stroking his back suddenly began to thump, as if trying to rid him of a bad cough.

Beyond the clouds of daze and slow-motion, a sound began to break through.

Words.

A soft, gentle crooning. A familiar voice.

"...alright. Come on, you can do it. Calm down. It's alright."

Ivan's voice.

Words of comfort and reassurance.

He gasped for air.

Nothing.

"It's okay. Here, here, I'm here. Come back."

His chest clenched. It wouldn't open.

"Hush. Look up, look up. Look at me."

Hands on his face.

A gentle shake.

The dark started to fade.

He came back from the universe. In the atmosphere, hovering above consciousness.

Cold.

A smell of metal.

Ivan's hand came up and ran through his hair, as the other held his head up by his collar.

"Look at me."

He tried, but he couldn't focus. Air wouldn't come.

He was lowered onto the cold, hard ground. Ivan's hands were on top of his chest, pushing down.

Up. Down.

Dazed and lost and feeling so far away, like he was watching everything happening as a spectator, he turned his head to the side as Ivan's continued to thump away at his chest.

He was in the mud. Blades of dead winter grass poked up.

There beside of him, staring at him, was the student. She didn't move. Her fixed eyes just stared at him.

"Come back."

She was so young. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Wake up."

He reached out, with a shaking, pale hand, and groped forward in an attempt to close her eyes.

He couldn't reach her.

"Look at me."

Ivan had shot her in the chest.

It occurred to him, amidst the surreal thoughts and dreaminess, that Ivan always aimed for the heart. He never shot anyone in the head. Always in the heart. A romantic, perhaps, until the very end.

She stared at him.

A sharp pain in his chest.

He could swear, for a horrible, frightening moment, that her lips moved.

A whisper.

_Murderer_.

"Come back."

He'd killed them all, every single one of them, and he could still see those embers drifting around in the sky, the awful smell of blood and gunpowder and a horrible kind of sweetness that was burning flesh, and they had never stood a chance, not from the moment that that marker had been placed in his hands—

_How could you? You're so stupid!_

—and it was too late to change any of it.

They were all dead.

Dead. The whole tiny little village. They were gone and nothing could bring them back, and oh Christ, there was nothing he could do to wash this blood from his hands, and he had stepped too far into the waters to turn back.

He had to cross. He had to.

Dark waters.

No going back. He couldn't ever go back.

Too late.

Ivan was waiting.

Beyond the horrible scents of war, something else.

Ivan's cologne.

Warm.

Hands on his face.

"Look at me."

_Don't look, don't look, don't look—_

It happened.

The attack released its grip upon his chest, his lungs expanded, and he took his first gasp of air. It hit him hard, and it _hurt_, at first, to feel the air flowing in after there hadn't been any for so long.

He bolted upright at the waist, gulping in air as fast as he could, panting and coughing and shivering, and he fell into another daze when the hyperventilation started.

The end. The hyperventilation was the last phase. If he could ride it out without slipping into unconsciousness...

That soothing voice kept murmuring away in his ear, like a brook. The dark was receding, as oxygen returned to his deprived body.

Hands upon him. Sounds came rushing in with far too much clarity. It hurt his head, and felt terribly surreal, to have control of his hearing long before his vision.

Ivan's whispers were comforting.

He tried to find Ivan's hands, groping blindly, and when he felt them, he grabbed a hold of Ivan's wrists for dear life, gripping as tightly as he could.

Ivan's voice got louder, as though he were suddenly encouraged and maybe relieved.

"That's it! There you are!"

A strange, almost breathless laugh. A strained voice.

"I thought I'd lost you."

The fog started to thin.

Time was ever quickening.

Things started to sharpen. Focus. Colors bled back in.

And then he could see. Really see.

Ivan.

The first thing he saw was Ivan. A beautiful sight. Ivan was staring at him, with that same look of alarm that had been on his face so long ago, when he had taken his temperature and realized how low it was. The same look. Ivan was worried.

Eyes wide and brow low and breathing through his mouth, Ivan shook him again, and tried to catch his wandering gaze.

"Look here. Here I am. Come on. Look at me."

He tried to focus.

Finally, he managed to settle, and the feeling of drifting in space subsided.

He came back to earth.

He saw Ivan. Really saw him. And he knew, then, that Ivan was not angry.

"I'm _sorry_," came the immediate whisper, as soon as he found himself really looking back at Ivan and comprehending him, and warm hands grabbed up his face. Ivan looked so serious, and so concerned. A regretful mutter. "It was too soon. I brought you out too soon. I should have let you work up to it. I'm sorry, Ludwig."

Sorry? Ivan never said 'Sorry'. Ivan did not make mistakes.

Thumbs ran over his cheeks. Ivan was trying to bring him back from the dark.

He was here.

Everything was too loud. Too bright.

His head was on fire.

Suddenly, the hands on his face were gone, and Ivan pulled himself up to his feet. And as soon as Ivan had reached down and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him up to his feet, he could feel something else creeping up upon.

Mortification. Embarrassment. Devastation.

He had let Ivan down. Again. By losing control of himself.

His chest hurt as Ivan led him along, and the entire time he just stared at the ground, far too ashamed to raise up his eyes and look around.

He could have died.

The sound of a door, and then warmth. Ivan shoved him into a soft seat. He finally looked up. Ivan had put him back in the car.

He looked down at himself, and felt his shame intensify; his sleek uniform was completely covered in mud. Stained on the front and back from where he had fallen, caked with earth and clay and grass-stains.

Oh, God. Never had he been so embarrassed.

Ivan settled in next to him, as he lied back on the seat, and didn't seem concerned by the dirt. He couldn't meet Ivan's gaze, as bad as he felt, and ducked his head away, closing his eyes.

Ivan leaned down above him, and placed a hand above his heart.

"Can you breathe?"

He nodded, once.

A silence.

Then Ivan's forehead was suddenly pressing into his own, and he could have just _cried_. He was _so _disappointed in himself.

"I'm sorry, Ludwig. I shouldn't have brought you so soon. I should have known better. You've never been around any of this. You just look so right in the uniform that I forget sometimes that you're really just a civilian. I didn't mean for this to happen. Please don't be angry with me..."

Angry? He had no reason to be angry. It should have been Ivan who was angry.

He had tried so hard to keep it together. He had failed.

"Wait here. I'll come back."

He looked up when Ivan pulled away, and he could see that Toris had come now too, standing outside the car and looking in with a face full of worry.

He tried to sit up.

"I can go, too."

Ivan's pushed him back down.

"Don't move. Rest."

But Christ in heaven, he didn't want to let Ivan _down_, and he couldn't put a finger on what it was within him that suddenly gave him the strength to pull himself up into a sitting position and say, weakly, "No, I'm fine. Let me do it. Please let me try again."

"Try what? You did your part. That wasn't anything for you. That was my half. You did everything you were supposed to do."

Maybe so, but he shouldn't have just stood there, inert in the field. He should have taken action. He should have striven to prove himself. He had broken down. He had let Ivan down, maybe not by failing his mission, but by letting his nerves fail in an environment that had still been hostile.

"Let me go with you."

Ivan only shook his head.

"Sit still. Don't move."

He pressed.

"Please."

"I said _sit_."

All gentleness was gone. Ivan's voice had turned sharp, and stern. No room for disobedience.

"Sit still. Don't _move_. Sit here and wait for me. Lie down and try to get some sleep."

Ivan ran a warm glove across his forehead, and turned to the side.

"Toris!"

Toris straightened up in attention.

"Finish up here."

"Yes."

"Make sure everything's done. Take the left. I'll go right."

"Yes."

The warmth of Ivan was gone, as he pulled himself out of the car.

A last look at Ludwig.

"Try to sleep. I'll be back soon. It's almost done."

And with that, Ivan left, disappearing back into the misty smoke.

Toris lingered.

Another voice floating into his ears.

"Ludwig? Hey."

He looked up, blearily.

Toris was leaning in, one knee resting down on the seat as he hovered over Ludwig with attentive eyes.

"Hey. You feelin' alright?"

He nodded.

Toris didn't exactly seem sold.

Silence. Shifting. Rustling.

And then, suddenly, fingers in his disheveled hair, and another hand upon his cheek.

"...you're freezing. Sure you're alright? Can you breathe okay?"

"I'm alright," he said, and his voice felt weak and rough and tired.

Irritated.

Toris just shook his head to himself, and muttered, "You should never have come out here."

He was tired. He wanted to go to sleep.

Barely comprehending Toris' words as the exhaustion came upon him like a wave, he could only reach up and grab a fistful of Toris' shirt, whispering, weakly, "I was so sure that I could do it."

A palm on his forehead.

"I thought I could do it better. I choked."

"Don't worry about it," Toris said, a bit sternly, as he ran his hand across Ludwig's forehead to clear it of the cold sweat. "You did your part. You shoulda stayed out there by the trees where you were _supposed _to, you big idiot. Why did you come out? You would have been fine if you had stayed where you were supposed to. Ah, hell. Well. It's too late, I guess. You tried. What else could you do?"

He felt himself smiling, as he looked up at Toris from behind the veil.

"I tried to be like you," he murmured, blearily, and he could see Toris' look of surprise.

"Like me?"

He nodded.

"You're brave, you know. I tried to stand out there, like I saw you doing. I thought I could jump in, like you do. But I just..."

Toris shook his head. A mournful whisper.

"You don't wanna be like me, Ludwig."

Without really thinking, exhaustion leading his actions, he reached up and took Toris' hand in a firm grip, and said, wearily, "I look to you...to teach me how to live out here, you know? It's so different. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

Toris' hand was suddenly returning the grip.

"I think you and me are more than friends, you know? I feel like you're my brother."

Silence.

He drifted into darkness, chest and eyes heavy and body aching, the warmth of the car dragging him down. There was no movement, no response, and he closed his eyes. He was about to fall asleep.

And then, Toris did something that must have been exceedingly difficult for him, if only for his stubbornness and pride :

He reached down, took up Ludwig's cold face within his palms, leaned forward, and kissed him upon the forehead.

Wordless comfort. Silent support.

And that was plenty.

Toris suddenly bolted out of the car, as if abashed, and Ludwig laid his head down, and went straight out.

But even as he slept...

He could still smell it. Hear it. See it.

Fire. Ash and embers in the air.

He felt himself kicking restlessly in sleep. Trying to get away from that girl, who stared at him from the ground.

Toris was right. He should have stayed by the trees. Once again, he had gone far overboard in an attempt to impress Ivan. And once again, it had taken him backwards. He needed to get a better grip on his pride and eagerness. He should have just stayed by the trees. He should never have gone into that field.

Never.

He could have just built himself up to that, instead of jumping in headfirst.

Sleep came, heavily.

Darkness.

He couldn't say how long it had been. Maybe hours.

He was vaguely aware of the roaring of tanks, as they started moving again.

He could have slept so much longer, but there were suddenly hands upon him, and he was lifted up and repositioned.

For a minute, he was too tired to open his eyes.

The car lurched. The tires cut through the mud.

He came back to himself a while later, and when he finally opened his eyes, there was no more fire.

Just darkness, and Ivan beside of him.

He was held up in Ivan's arms.

No more screaming.

Just silence, and the feeling of Ivan's chest rising and falling as he breathed.

The car was back on the road. They were going back to the station. Other cars were behind them on the road. Headlights shone through the night.

The ride back was eerily quiet.

Or maybe it was as noisy as the ride there had been, only that he was too dumb and dazed to hear any outside commotions.

Breathing hurt. His chest ached.

"Awake?"

He nodded, wearily, and sat up straight.

The movement hurt.

"Good."

Ivan leaned in to him, and finally chided him a little. But it wasn't for what he expected.

Arm around his shoulders pulling him in, Ivan looked over with a very stern brow and said, lowly, "Why didn't you tell me, huh?"

He could only look up, dazed and far too comfortable in Ivan's arms. He wanted to go back to sleep.

"Tell you about what?"

Ivan shook him a little.

"About _what_—about that! Why didn't you tell me you got... How do you say it?"

Oh, right. How embarrassing.

"Panic attacks."

A stern look.

"If you had told me, I would have gone about this all differently."

Feeling a little mortified and a little defensive, he managed to grumble, "It hasn't happened in a long time."

Ivan's voice turned sharp.

Dangerous.

"I wasn't asking for excuses. I didn't ask when you had the last one. I asked why you didn't tell me. You should have told me."

There it was. That old anxiety.

Just a second of hearing Ivan speak in that voice was enough to make him feel like he was up in _that _room all over again.

The darkness of some closet.

"...sorry."

Ivan was right. Maybe he should have said something. Mentioned those pills he had had so long ago.

He sat there, hands folded in his lap and staring down as his heart started speeding up, and there was a short silence in which he could hear, with painful clarity, the slamming of a door in the distance.

Damn.

He always messed something up, one way or another.

Ivan was quiet, brooding, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he stared ahead, no doubt rethinking the entire thing and wondering what he could have done differently.

Finally, he found his voice, and said, again, "Sorry. I should have said something."

Ivan glanced over at him, arms crossed above his chest.

"Anything else I should know about? Hm? Heart problems? Anemia? Bad ankles?"

Bad ankles?

He looked over, dumbly.

Ivan's brow had come up, and his lips were twitching. The anger was gone.

'Sorry' was such a good way to prevent disasters. A good survival skill.

He couldn't help it, as Ivan started to smile.

He laughed. Despite it all. Maybe it should have horrified him, above all else, that was still able to _laugh _after the atrocities he had just witnessed.

But somehow...

Now that he was out of the grip of the attack, it didn't really bother him so much. Bad things happened sometimes. The world wasn't right. It never would be. It wasn't _his _fault.

Ivan seemed to be put off guard a little by his laughter, and pulled him into a complete embrace.

"I was really worried about you."

With that, with the comfort of Ivan and the continual assuaging of his guilt, he felt better.

"Don't be," he said, and he really meant it.

He didn't want Ivan to worry about him. He wanted Ivan to admire him.

One way or another.

Ivan let him go, and leaned in against him as he returned his arms back up to his chest.

"So," he began, in a cool voice, "You finished off the left and then thought you'd come over and try to finish up my side, too, huh?"

Ivan was trying to make him feel at ease. It worked.

He was going to open his mouth and say, 'Well, it looked like you needed help', but Ivan didn't give him time, leaning in with a raised brow and a high chin, and a look of what might have been incredulousness.

"I like that you try so hard, but don't hurt yourself. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you were trying to steal my job from me. It's alright to do things slowly, you know?"

Alright, sure.

But that wasn't anything exceptional. That wasn't what Ivan really expected of him, no matter what he said. Ivan said one thing, but meant another. It was all a game. Everything. He had to win. That was the only outcome. Losing was not an option. Not out here.

The aching in his chest was a painful reminder. No more mistakes. The childish time of making mistakes and learning from them was gone.

Outside, the fields were giving way to houses, stacked up on hills and built with cheap materials, one on top of the other, old and dilapidated and falling apart.

But at least they weren't on fire.

Kiev was back.

No one here even knew what had happened all those miles out.

Maybe they saw the smoke rising up against the night sky, but they couldn't have known exactly what had caused it. No one would ever know that he had had something to do with that. Maybe out here, no one really even cared. Maybe they saw this kind of thing so frequently that it just didn't bother them anymore.

Desensitized. Not just the soldiers.

He wondered if he'd be that way too, after seeing it so many times. He had choked this time, but already, away from the scene, he was able to push it all from his mind.

The next time would be a little easier, and then the time after that, and the time after that. And then one time it would happen, and he wouldn't even flinch.

Like Toris.

The lights of Kiev hazed out the stars above, and the smoke of the tiny village was no longer visible. That was for the best. Like it never happened.

They pulled to a stop, in front of the train station. Everything was loud.

Even this late.

As soon as they stepped out, back into the cold air, Ivan came around and grabbed him by the sleeve, a bundle under his other arm. Where had that come from?

"Come here."

He was tugged along, back towards the end of the station, and shoved rather unceremoniously into what might have been a bathroom.

"Here," Ivan said, as he shoved the bundle into his arm, "Go change. You can't walk around here like that. People will wonder."

He looked down at himself, and remembered that his uniform was covered in mud from where he had collapsed.

Dots of blood on his pants.

"Right."

He fell back into a stall, and shed his dirty uniform with a sense of great relief. The clothes Ivan had given him were familiar. The uniform he'd worn back at the ball. That standard color of olive. A field uniform. Well, it may not have been as glossy, but at least it was clean. And when he pulled it on, it was like nothing had ever happened.

He came out, the dirty uniform folded neatly under his arm, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was surprised, more than anything else.

He had expected to look pale, wan, tired and scared and maybe exhausted. But he didn't. He looked fine.

Just fine.

No one would ever have looked at him and guessed that he had just been struggling for breath in the middle of a panic attack only hours earlier. No circles under his eyes. Still pale, but no longer wan. He just looked ready to go.

His hair was a little dirty, though.

He reached down and turned on the faucet above the sink, and bent over, sticking his head beneath the cold water and dousing it completely, washing it free of the dirt as best he could.

The freezing water was a little refreshing, after all of it.

He was already feeling better. By tomorrow, this whole thing would be a memory.

Turning the water off, he shook his wet hair and straightened back up, wiping off his face with his sleeve. As more of an afterthought, he knelt down and took off his boots, rinsing them of the mud.

When he looked in the mirror again, when he smoothed back his damp hair, he looked even better than he felt.

He looked fine.

Time to go. All business again.

Life went on.

No one stopped for these kinds of things. He just had to stop worrying so much about it all. He couldn't change anything that happened. He didn't understand why he had to try and justify it so frequently, why he had to keep saying it over and over and over again, why he had to try so hard to convince himself.

What good would worrying about it do? It wouldn't undo anything that had been done. It wasn't his fault. He had just done what he was told. Following orders.

Ha.

Someone had told him once, 'the worst crimes in the history of humanity were committed by men who were just following orders.'

_What's your name? _

Well, whoever it had been obviously didn't understand the way the world worked. Once you were in the chain of command, what else could you do? Orders were orders. A job. People just tried to do their jobs.

Not the fault of a single person. It was just the way the world was.

A knock on the door.

"Ready?"

He started out of his stillness, finished fixing his hair, and went to the door. When he opened it, Ivan was leaning there in the frame, looking a little tired.

The day was catching up with him.

"Ready?" he asked again, as he looked up and down, and Ludwig nodded. "You look nice in that color," Ivan added, as they stepped back out into the station, and Ludwig only shrugged a shoulder.

"I like the other one better."

"I guessed so."

He fidgeted absently with his hair, trying to keep strands of it from poking back upright, straightening wrinkles from his shirt with the other, and Ivan just smiled at him.

"You look fine."

His hands fell down, as they approached the gate, and he wondered for a moment when he had become so self-conscious. He never had been before, not about appearances anyway.

His appearance reflected upon Ivan. It was his job, perhaps more than anything else, to make sure that Ivan's reputation was upheld. He wished now that he had done a better job of that back in Lensk. That he had conducted himself with a little more grace and professionalism.

There would be other opportunities. Chances for redemption.

He'd always lived his life mostly for others. This was no exception. A lot more satisfying, though. Ivan recognized his hard work and dedication and loyalty, and responded with equal amounts. And that was better than what he had had before.

The doors opened. They stepped on, and walked through the nearly empty passage.

Back on the train.

The compartment door slid shut, Ivan settled down beside of him, and it was like every other time.

Almost.

This was the first time riding a train after very nearly living up to that word that was so often whispered to him at night.

Murderer.

He hadn't pulled the trigger this time. Maybe next time.

When the train started moving, beginning its journey back to Moscow, Ivan looked over at him, and said, quietly, "I spoke to the men you led."

He only managed a very cool, "Oh?"

Even though his veins were hammering with adrenaline.

But his fears of being belittled did not come to be, and Ivan's silvery voice was all pride when he continued, "They said you were an honor to follow."

His heart soared. Just what he needed to hear.

Ivan's smile turned into a leer.

"They did say that they were a little scared of you, though, because you walked off into the bullets and didn't try to take cover. They say you stayed right up front. They called you a crazy son of a bitch."

That had been shock and daze. Not bravery and fearlessness.

But, hell.

Ivan didn't need to know that. Assuming that he didn't already. So he stayed silent, and just scoffed as he turned his eyes to the window.

Ivan's next words made it all worth it.

All of it.

"I'm proud of you."

All he had wanted.

He kept his face turned towards the window so Ivan would not see his smile.

The pain in his chest, the awful experience of a panic attack, the blood on his pants.

Worth it.

An arm was over his shoulder.

"Go to sleep. We'll be there before you know it."

He obeyed, as Ivan rested his head down upon his shoulder and was out like a light.

He followed not long after.

Sleep came easily, if not a bit fitfully.

Nightmares.

Sounds and smells and sights he would rather forget. But they were only nightmares; when he started awake and opened his eyes, he was not back in that field.

Just on the train.

He could forget all of this, in time. He would get over this. Nightmares went away after a while. Ivan was constant. He would get the hang of it.

He passed in and out of sleep as the train lurched.

Ivan slept, as he always did. Couldn't seem to stay awake on a moving vehicle.

As the hours passed and the night started to fade, the lingering effects of the attack were dissipating. By the time Moscow was approaching again, in the pale light of the next morning, the clenching in his chest was gone. He felt better. The panic attack was a mere memory.

And with clear breathing and a clear head came a thought that made him furrow his brow and glance over at Ivan half-heartedly.

Twice now, that he was unable to keep composure when Ivan had given him a chance to do so.

He hadn't been able to shoot Pavlov. He hadn't been able to endure the burning field.

Once had been bad enough. Twice was too much.

Even if Ivan had said that he was proud, it didn't make it sting any less that he had been left a breathless mess upon the ground.

That Ivan had ever seen him like that.

It hurt.

Embarrassing. A blow to the pride he had left, and to the ever-creeping loyalty towards Ivan that seemed to get a little stronger every day. It stung a little, to think of himself as a failure.

No words that Ivan gave would erase the mortification of knowing he had been seen in such a vulnerable state.

When the train pulled in, Ivan woke up and turned to him, arm still around his shoulder and eyes heavy, and asked, with a gentle shake, "What do you want to do? Should we just go straight home, or do you want to spend the night and leave tomorrow? How do you feel?"

A lurch of disappointment.

"I thought we were staying two weeks?"

Ivan shifted a bit, and turned to him a concerned eye.

"I don't want you getting sick."

Damn.

He wasn't ready to go.

"I'm okay," he said, maybe too quickly, and the immediate question was obvious. "Do we _have _to go?"

Ivan raised a brow.

"You want to stay?"

It was thin ice, he knew, as much as Ivan hated Moscow and after the night, but he did not want to return to Mirny until he had done something to make Ivan proud.

Anything.

"I'd like to stay for a while. If...you don't mind."

Ivan minded, he knew he did, but he humored him anyway with a snort, and the shake of his head.

"Oh, alright. I guess we can stay for a little while. I should have known that you'd want to look around a little." A hand in his hair. "Tomorrow, we'll go see the Kremlin or something. Okay?"

He nodded. He didn't really want to go sight-seeing, so much as find something useful for him to do, but he would take what he could get. He wanted to regain a little dignity.

The train stopped.

Like before, Ivan slid the screen, and ushered him through. There weren't so many to push through this time, as late as it had been when they left Kiev.

Outside, however, was a different story.

Masses.

When they stepped out of the train, he straightened up and tidied his uniform without being told to, and when they started walking through the crowd, Ivan leaned in to him and whispered, "You know, I didn't notice it earlier. That uniform's starting to get a little tight. I think it's time for a new one."

He looked down, and could see that maybe Ivan was right.

The buttons across the chest were a little stressed.

Ivan seemed pleased.

"I guess I should have fed you a little less, until we got back."

Narrowing his eyes a little, as he kept his chin up and tried to intimidate passersby, Ludwig muttered back, "Are you trying to say I'm getting fat?"

"Not at all," Ivan said, primly.

"Good."

And with that, he felt himself smiling a little. The burning forest seemed a million miles away.

He felt better.

They walked close together, and with every step, he felt the awful feeling of a panic attack flowing further away.

A fresh start. He would try again.

It was a mark, perhaps, of the darkness of this land that he could ever put such sights behind him. Or maybe that was the darkness within himself. Things he had never known were there at all.

Ivan had said so, hadn't he?

_We're the same, you and I._

The same.

The crowds parted for them as best they could, and the streets were drawing near.

They had nearly reached the end of the station when it happened.

A burst of silver in the pale sun.

Like a beacon.

He turned, instinctively, but there was only the massive crowd that poured into the train station, so many people, and no matter how hard he looked, he could not see that silver glow again against the drab backdrop.

He looked over this way and that.

A horrible feeling within his chest.

An odd exhilaration.

He felt himself popping up on his toes as he scanned the vast crowds. His heart was racing all of a sudden, and he didn't know _why_.

He didn't know why he was looking, and he didn't know for what.

His veins coursed with the fire of adrenaline, and suddenly he could swear that he saw _something _out there in that endless crowd, something familiar and comforting, something he had lost long ago, and suddenly everything was hazy, and his heart _ached_.

Another burst of silver, and above the loud voices, an even louder one.

A rush of absolute elation that he had not felt in so long.

He couldn't place it.

Suddenly, he was sick with adrenaline.

He felt himself take a step back towards the crowd.

Something was drawing him in. An invisible hand, trying to drag him back.

But suddenly a voice cut through the haze.

"What's wrong?"

He looked over his shoulder, to see Ivan leaning in, looking concerned.

"You feel alright?"

He broke Ivan's gaze, as excited as he felt, and turned his eyes back to the crowd.

He didn't understand why. He just knew there was something here that he should look for. He didn't know what.

Ivan tugged him back.

"Let's go."

Go?

No, no, no, no, he couldn't go, there was something _here_, he knew it, something that his mind told him to go looking for.

But Ivan was strong, and he fell back.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Ivan reached out and grabbed his chin, and forced him to look up.

"What?"

He shook his head, as best he could for Ivan's iron grip, and breathed, "I thought I saw something."

Ivan's brow lowered in concern.

"What did you see?"

Ivan's other hand came up and fell on his forehead.

As if he was sick.

No. He wasn't sick.

"Are you seeing things?"

...what? Seeing things?

He opened his mouth, and found no answer.

Because, well...

He had seen things before, hadn't he?

That relentless racing of his heart and sudden adrenaline _did _make him feel slightly ill, and suddenly there was a cold sweat on his forehead, and maybe he _was _just seeing things.

Just hallucinating again. He had before. Maybe he was now.

That silver flash was probably all in his head.

That something. Maybe it wasn't real.

But oh Christ in heaven, something inside was screeching at him to turn around and look.

He couldn't, for Ivan's grip.

Suddenly, Ivan's hand swept back his bangs, and he said, worriedly, "Maybe we should go home. I'm worried about you."

And those words somehow cut through the rush.

Ivan's eyes raised up, and he scanned the crowd.

"What did you see? There's nothing there. Do you want to go home?"

Home.

Home.

He felt sick. He couldn't go home. He had promised himself that he would redeem his failure.

He shook his head, and tried to smile.

"No, I'm fine. It's alright. Let's just go."

Ivan's grip released.

And even though his heart ached, he forced himself to walk on.

No matter how much the voice inside begged and begged, he couldn't turn around.

He was just seeing things.

It didn't matter, in the end. It wasn't real. Just a false alarm.

Ivan was real. Ivan was all that mattered.

So why did it still hurt so much, to not be able to go back and seek that which was calling him?

He could swear that he had seen something.

But Ivan was at his side, and whatever he had seen might not even be real. He could not risk angering a very real Ivan for something that could turn out to be nothing.

It hurt.

In the end, obedience won out.

Despite the nagging tug, despite the voice screeching in his mind, despite the strange feeling in his chest and the awful aching in his heart, he obeyed.

He did not turn his head. Why bother? Ivan had said so :

Nothing there.

The station ended, and they stepped into the street. He lingered there, at the entrance.

Oh.

God.

He _longed_ to turn.

_Don't look, don't look, don't look__—_

He didn't. He raised his chin, and took a step.

There were no more bursts of light.

He walked on.

He didn't look back.

Nothing there.

* * *

><p>The worst days of his life.<p>

Endless fog. Hopelessness. No light. Just darkness.

So many days driving in the middle of nowhere, staying on the road for only a few hours and spending the rest huddled up in a cold car and praying, _praying _that no one would find them.

Dismal thoughts.

When Gilbert had sat there in the car, head rested against the glass and moping, and had looked up and seen the first buildings of Moscow, he had taken a hand and covered his mouth to stifle the awful rise of nausea.

The city he feared, more than anything else on earth. He had go into the heart of it.

Eduard had looked over at him, then, and tried to smile.

'You okay?'

He shook his head, and looked in the backseat.

Ludwig had sat there, hands folded neatly in his lap as he stared at Gilbert with an alarmingly intense gaze.

Ludwig had smiled.

'_Almost there_!'

Gilbert had turned back around, took a great breath, and forced his hands steady.

Moscow just got closer and closer. And yet somehow, Ludwig didn't _feel _any closer.

He just felt...

Hopeless.

The first day in Moscow had been a complete waste of time, as he had roamed irritably through the streets, not even knowing what he was looking for. Eduard had humored him, and walked at his side even though he must have thought that Gilbert was insane.

Nothing.

The second day, he had dragged Eduard into libraries and public records buildings, forcing him to sift through years and years for anything at all.

Nothing.

The third day, sick of sleeping in the car, Eduard had found a cheap motel, and Gilbert had spent the day inside, curled on the bed and crying as Ludwig had sat there beside of him, chiding him for being so hard-headed.

He still hadn't told Eduard who he was looking for. Eduard had to have been frustrated, but didn't show it.

The fourth day, he had wandered the streets again, hoping in some stupid way that he would just bump into Ludwig on the street.

Stupid. Childish.

It hadn't happened.

Nothing.

The fifth day began with a bad start.

He had so many nightmares.

When he woke up, Ludwig was gone. Where had he gone?

He had set out in a foul mood, a quiet Eduard walking dutifully beside of him.

Today, he had decided to go into the train station. It had worked once before.

But now, as he stood here...

He felt overwhelmed. Lost.

Such a huge station, people all around, and yet he felt so damn alone. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know who to ask or what to ask or how.

Eduard followed behind him as he stalked this way and that, pushing through the crowd and looking over people and feeling so helpless.

He wanted to cry again.

The morning dragged on.

There was nothing. He just wanted to see Ludwig. In foolish desperation, he started passing by every line of passengers getting on and off trains, as if by some miracle Ludwig would be one of them.

He never was.

Eduard stood there, hands in his pockets, and looked agitated. Exasperated. Tired.

"When are you gonna knock it off and ask for help?"

Gilbert sent him a half-hearted glare, and ignored him. He was so scared of telling Eduard who he was looking for, and why. Eduard might run.

He searched the station for hours. Hours. Miserable hours.

Nothing.

His heart sank down into his feet, and it took every shred of control in his body just to not fall to his knees, press his forehead into the concrete, and _cry_. He wanted to cry. He wanted to go home.

He wanted Ludwig.

Eduard didn't say another word, and let him do as he pleased.

He roamed, restlessly. Endlessly. The same thing, over and over and over again.

Ludwig just wasn't here.

He had finally fallen to a complete halt, exhausted and tired and so disheartened, and he had turned to Eduard, ready to call it quits for another day. He just couldn't take anymore of this. He wanted it all to be over.

It just dragged on.

He opened his mouth, and meant to speak.

But something distracted him.

A light.

A feeling of familiarity as a group of passengers passed.

He thought he saw, in the lights of the station, a gleam of pale hair catching fire. He stopped in his tracks, and felt a horrible rush of _something _that nearly knocked him right off his feet.

He whirled around, and tried to see it again.

Reaching out with both arms, he tried to shove his way through the crowd, trying in desperation to find that which he had lost. He straightened up and tried to look above them, but he couldn't find it. He just saw mothers and children, old men and old women, young girls gawking and giggling at Soviet soldiers that passed, fathers holding babies in their arms.

Everyone and no one.

On no, it _had _to be here. He had _seen _it, he could swear to _God _he had. He had seen Ludwig's hair, lit up bright in the light. He had felt it, in his heart and in his mind.

He had seen Ludwig.

Somewhere. He knew it. He swore it.

He had lost him.

He turned and tried to push through on the left, and then on the right, and then back again, wandering in circles and jumping up on his toes and trying to _see_. He couldn't. He couldn't see anything.

He couldn't see Ludwig.

He tried not to burst into tears, and searched the crowd in the same circle. An endless loop of misery.

No one there. Nothing.

_Oh_, he could have died for the way he felt. He could have lied down on the pavement and just _died_.

Because it was gone. That sudden hope. That light.

Gone.

He searched for an hour. Nothing.

Finally, he was forced to admit defeat. And it was the most horrible feeling he had ever known, because he had _felt _it.

He had _felt _Ludwig.

He could swear that he had been _so _close...

So close. He had felt it.

He could have sworn—oh God he could have _sworn_—that he had seen a flash of brilliant white, that familiar old gleam of pale sunlight breaking through Ludwig's hair, lighting up the horrid grey gloom of Moscow like a beacon of salvation.

There was nothing.

No matter where he turned his head or how many times he popped up on his toes, he just couldn't catch that spark again.

Nothing.

It hurt to admit. Ludwig wasn't here. He had missed something, somewhere. There was no Ludwig here.

For an awful moment, he fell to a halt before a train that was pulling in, and he thought about running forward and jumping in front of it.

He thought about it.

But a sudden hand on his arm prevented whatever his delirious mind might have done.

He looked back, dumbly.

Not Ludwig. Eduard. He had had enough of this.

"Well," Eduard finally began, and his eyes were locked onto Gilbert's with an intensity that was almost expectant, "It's been long enough! I'm _tired _of this. Are you ready to tell me who you're looking for? If not, I'm gone. If you won't tell me, then why would I stay?"

Gilbert shifted, reluctantly. He did not want to say that name. What if Eduard fled?

Ludwig was gone. Where had Ludwig gone?

Ludwig was _gone_. He didn't want Eduard to go, too. He didn't want to be alone. Not here.

Not out here.

"You can't do this alone," Eduard stated, firmly, and Gilbert knew it was true. "_Tell _me. You need me. You can't go on alone. You can't."

God in heaven, what could he do? What choice did he have?

He couldn't go on alone. He had neither the strength nor the courage. The will. He couldn't. He would die, either of incompetence or by doing it himself.

He couldn't.

He had to say it. No choice.

Finally, he braced himself and clenched his fists at his sides, turning back to watch the train, and when he found himself, he whispered so softly and so lowly that he would be surprised if Eduard could even hear him at all.

But he did not dare raise his voice, because _that name _could not be spoken aloud, for fear it might summon the devil himself.

"Braginsky," he finally managed, "Ivan Braginsky."

Silence.

He looked back.

A passing of something _awful _over Eduard's face, and even for the freezing air Gilbert could see the breaking of a cold sweat upon his brow.

That name. He should have known.

Eduard finally moved, after a stunned moment, tucking his hands suddenly in his pockets, and Gilbert knew that it was only to hide their tremble, and then he laughed, weakly.

Humorlessly.

"Well!" he said, voice so pale and thin it was barely audible, and Gilbert felt a squirm of unease. "Is that it, then?"

"Yeah," he responded, and Eduard caught his eye again.

Darkness.

Eduard looked on the verge of fainting, and yet still he smiled, as though trying to be brave.

He imagined that Eduard felt much like he did. Hopeless. Scared. Lost. Overwhelmed. On the edge of the cliff, staring down into the dark sea.

There was a long, strange silence.

And then Eduard looked up at the ceiling of the station, shielding his eyes from the bright lights with his hand.

"Ha."

A strange whisper.

"Well. Never thought I'd hear _that _name again."


	22. Chapter 21

**A/N **: 'Sup. Miss me? I know, sorry that I disappeared for a while, but I'm back now, and I do intend on finishing this, even though it's a ginormous monster. I know that the last two chapters were unholy long, so I've been trying to force myself to keep my chapters in all my stories close to 10, 000 words. You know, so you don't get a deep vein thrombosis trying to read one of them.

This chapter makes me sad, somehow, and that was why this is where I cut off while I went away. :/

While I was gone, I got a few messages asking about what kind of theme songs I envision for this, so I thought I'd share some, because I have several. Feel free to check them out. 'Acceptance' and 'Room of Angel' by Mary Elizabeth McGlynn (these two especially), 'Koe' and 'Chou' by Tsukiko Amano, and 'Somewhere Out There' by Our Lady Peace, just to name a few.

Thanks for your endless patience. :D I'll update again pretty soon. I apologize for being a terrible smut writer in advance. I try, but it's just not what I do.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21 <strong>

"So. Tell me about your brother."

The first words Eduard had said to him after leaving the train station, as they had lied there in the dirty little hotel beds. Sleet fell outside. The constant lights of the city shone in through the thin curtains.

The air was cold.

Gilbert lied back, hands folded behind his head, and Eduard sat cross-legged on the other bed, staring over at him from behind his glasses with friendly eyes.

Ludwig sat down on the floor between the beds, resting up against the end-table and legs straight out before him as he hummed to himself, fingers drumming the carpet quite merrily.

Gilbert looked down at him every so often, and Ludwig would just look back up at him, and smile.

_'How's it goin', Gilbert?'_

His heart hurt.

That glint of light and the burst of exhilaration had long since gone. The ache in his chest remained.

They had just sat in miserable silence, until Eduard had finally tried to engage him a little.

"Tell me about your brother."

Efforts at making conversation.

Those words woke him up, for the first time in so long, and he was sure he was smiling.

When he looked down between the beds, Ludwig was a little kid again, awkward and gangly, legs crossed and eyes bright as he gawked up at Gilbert with a smile.

"His name's Ludwig."

Eduard smiled, a little, and let him speak as he would.

Oh.

It felt so good to actually think about something _nice_. To remember Ludwig, and actually speak about him. To try and let someone else know how _happy _Ludwig had made him.

"He's still a kid, ya know. Your age, I guess. He's tall. Smart. He's so smart."

A kid—was Ludwig still a kid? Seemed like yesterday he had given Ludwig his name.

Eduard cast him a weary smile, and asked, "Blond and blue-eyed?"

Gilbert glanced at him with a quirked brow.

"How'd you know?"

Eduard shrugged a shoulder.

"Just a hunch."

Gilbert shrugged off Eduard's odd tone, and carried on.

When he started talking about Ludwig, it was hard to stop.

"Yeah, he's blond. His eyes are so pretty. That was the first thing I ever noticed about him." He felt his chest puffing in pride suddenly, as he added, "I named him, you know!"

Eduard's smile perked up a little.

"Oh, yeah?"

Gilbert rolled over onto his side, head propped up in his hand, and he knew that Eduard must have seen the way his teeth had come out from behind his smile, the way his eyes were suddenly crinkling, the way his brow was higher than usual, the way his face suddenly felt so much less tense.

The way Ludwig made him feel.

It must have been obvious, after this past week of nothing but depression.

"When you see him the first time, he looks kinda scary, you know, cause he's tall, and his voice is so deep. But when you talk to him, if you actually give him time and get to know him, he's just... He's such a sweet kid. Sometimes I can't even believe I raised someone so fuckin' _nice_. He's the opposite of everything I was. He's so nice. He'd do anything for anyone. He's a good kid. You'll like him. I know you will, when you meet him."

He was so absorbed in the memory of Ludwig, in that image inside of his head, that he didn't even notice the steady falling of Eduard's face.

How sad he looked, suddenly.

"You raised him, huh? What happened to your parents?"

"They died. It was always just me and Ludwig."

When he spoke about Ludwig, in whatever instance or whomever to, it never really crossed him mind to mention that they weren't _real _brothers, because it had never once mattered to either one of them.

"You two must be close."

Close. That wasn't even the right word. There wasn't any way he could have ever described the way he truly felt about Ludwig. It wasn't anything that anyone else might have been able to understand.

Beyond brotherhood.

He couldn't explain it, but tried to anyway.

"It's like... When he's gone, it feels like I'm gone, too, you know? Like if you went outside all of a sudden and saw that the sun was gone. When Ludwig's gone, I don't even feel like doing anything. I can't even figure out why I bother. If I can't find him out here, then I don't— I can't live after, if I can't find him. The only time I was ever happy was when he was around."

He probably sounded stupid.

Eduard stared at him, and then gave a scoff, and reached over into his bag. When he spoke, his voice was a little thick.

"Ah, hell. You wanna drink?"

Eduard pulled his hand out, and a bottle of vodka came with it.

Drink. Oh, God. Did he _ever_.

He couldn't—he'd promised Ludwig. If he had one, just one, the whole damn spiral would start again, and he'd keep goin' down.

He'd never find Ludwig.

All the same, he didn't trust himself enough to open his mouth, so he just shook his head.

"Do you mind if I do?"

He shook his head again.

Below, Ludwig's humming had stopped, and he looked up at Gilbert from the floor, very much an adult again, whispering, '_Keep it up, Gilbert. As long as you can. You promised._'

He couldn't answer Ludwig with Eduard wide-awake, so he smiled at Ludwig instead, and rolled onto his back so that the sight of Eduard drinking wouldn't get too tempting.

They were quiet again, for an hour or two, as Eduard hammered back glass after glass with surprising skill, and when half the bottle was gone, he looked over at Gilbert again, and yet still seemed perfectly lucid.

His voice held no slur when he spoke.

"You alright over there? You're awfully quiet."

It seemed like people out here had more vodka running through their veins than blood.

Gilbert stared up at the shadows that played across the ceiling, and muttered, "I'm fine."

He glanced down; Ludwig was gone.

Feeling a bit of panic, he looked around, hands tangling in the blanket, and was relieved to find Ludwig at his side on the bed, splayed out and looking quite content.

They stared at each other, Ludwig's eyes bright in the dingy hotel room, and Gilbert found that no matter how many years passed, no matter how many times they had looked at each other, Ludwig still had the uncanny ability to take his breath away.

Strands of Ludwig's hair had come loose and fallen into his eyes.

He'd've cut off his damn foot, then, if someone had asked him to, if he were only allowed to reach out and put them back in place.

Couldn't.

Eduard was still for a while, and then asked, suddenly, "What will you do if you can't get him back? If you don't mind me askin'."

Without hesitation, Gilbert said, honestly, "I'd jump in front of a train."

He almost had already.

Finally, Eduard cast him a rather sad look, and said, "You know that's it going to be a while before we get there, don't you? It's not like you're gonna spend a few days in Moscow and then suddenly find him in the streets and you get to go home. Where we gotta go...it's a long way."

He had had a feeling, but he had tried to be optimistic.

How pointless—optimism broke the world.

Still, he asked, "How long?"

"Months."

It hurt to hear, and Eduard saw his dour look.

"Sorry, I really am, but you gotta understand how things work out here. We can go ahead and leave Moscow, sure, but we won't get too far. Out there, where we need to go, the roads are only useable for a few months. The ice and snow, you know. Once it starts melting, we'll be able to start out. We can't take the train. Driving is...well, it's pretty goddamn scary, but that's our only choice. I think we'll be able to start out in a month or two, but it might take another month to get there, depending on the journey. Maybe more. Once we're out there, there's no turning back. If we get lost, once, we're dead. If we start out in April, it might not be 'til July when we get there. And he goes out so much anyway that they might not even be there, if we make it. It's all luck."

Luck.

Luck had never been on his side.

"Why can't we take the train?"

Eduard suddenly looked about as miserable as Gilbert felt.

"I'm scared," he finally admitted. "I keep thinkin'... What if he finds out while we're there? Where can we run, if we're stuck in place like that? If he sends someone out after us, how are we gonna get away if the only place we have to go is to the back of the cart? I'm too scared to take the train. At least in a car, we can try to run, if he catches us."

He.

Gilbert knew who _he _was.

Blearily, he looked over.

Ludwig was sleeping.

* * *

><p>Moscow, whatever else could be said about it, had a very vibrant nightlife.<p>

Loud and bright. As many people crowded the streets at midnight as they did at noon. Never quiet.

Going back to the hotel that first night, after the fires had burned, had been unpleasant.

Not for the reasons he might have once expected.

Ivan stripped down and made a run for the bathroom, and Ludwig had grabbed up the bundle that Ivan had set aside. When the sound of the shower running came through the door, he had rolled out the glossy, silvery-blue uniform that Ivan had given him, and stared at the drops of blood on the pant-legs.

Dried, now.

_Help me._

As Ivan showered, he went to the sink, turned on the water, grabbed some soap, and tried to clean it out. Not because of the memory of the girl, as she had lurched up and spat blood, but because he liked that uniform.

He realized it _irritated _him more than it horrified him. Fuckin' uniform had been perfect the day before. Look at it now.

Mud, blood, and ash.

Maybe it was still the agitation of everything, it could have been the way his chest was a little sore, or it could have been that glint of something he thought he had seen.

Whatever it was, it was steadily befouling his mood.

He rinsed the pants, frowned, washed them again, and could feel the frustration mounting.

Couldn't seem to get rid of it.

Blood-pressure rising.

His head hurt.

A half-hour of relentless lathering, and still the stains remained. When Ivan came in, still damp and red-faced and messy, pressing up behind him and kissing the back of his neck, Ludwig was too damn frustrated to even acknowledge him.

Couldn't bleach it—that'd ruin it worse.

What could he do?

Finally, Ivan spoke up, and asked, amicably, "What's the matter?"

A long silence.

Frustration.

"I can't get the stains out."

Ivan pulled back, looked down at the uniform, and just said, simply, "Ah. Forget it. It's ruined. I'll get you another one."

That didn't seem to make the agitation go away. He kept on scrubbing, and he could feel Ivan's lips twisting into a smile against his neck.

"Mad?"

He nodded his head, brow scrunched and lips pursed. Because he realized that he _was_—actually, he was pretty goddamn furious.

She had _bled _on him.

On _him_.

Bleeding on him was like bleeding on Ivan, and nobody bled on Ivan.

The audacity was exceedingly close to mind-blowing.

"What do you wanna do about it?" Ivan finally asked, lips warm on his ear, and the words came out of his mouth before he could really even think about it.

Hands ran up and down his back.

His answer was short, clipped, and honest :

"Hurt someone."

He had never once in his life lifted up his head and thought to himself, 'I need to hurt someone to feel better.'

He did now, and he didn't know where that feeling had come from or why.

It was there all the same.

Ivan smiled, and raked teeth down his neck.

"So," he finally said, "Let's go hurt someone."

That was how they had wound up in the foul Moscow streets, Ludwig smothered in Ivan's giant coat and Ivan back in his uniform, seemingly unfazed by the sleet that was battering the sidewalk.

The city was very much awake.

It did occur to Ludwig, at times, that his entire life went more smoothly when he kept his big mouth shut, but, on the other hand, he had been seeking a way to redeem himself.

Hurting someone was probably the only way to do so.

Still. A bit precipitous, on his part.

Well. Yeah, but why not plunge forward? That burst of light in the train station had only been in his mind.

Nothing more.

The only person on the face of the earth who even cared that he was alive was Ivan. Ludwig could hurt someone, for him.

He roamed the streets with Ivan, who kept him close to his side and scoured the streets for who knew what.

Looking for trouble.

No one could ever know what was whirring through Ivan's mind, but Ludwig was well-aware of the focus in his eyes, and the quick reflexes every time he turned his head. Observing. Ivan had been regretful about taking him out into that field so soon, and was no doubt looking for something 'easy' to break him in.

He and Ivan had very different ideas of what was easy.

The twists and turns came and went, and when the buildings became less well-tended, when the crowds started looking a little shadier, Ludwig realized that Ivan was leading him into the bad side of town.

Oh, they'd find trouble here, alright.

A few minutes of walking, as Ludwig kept straight as a board and looked around every so often to make sure there wasn't any danger, and a firm hand on his arm startled him. A jerk to the side had him nearly tumbling.

Ivan had suddenly dragged him into a dark, dirty alley.

Stagnant water on the pavement.

His pounding heart slowed down when he realized that Ivan hadn't found something for him to do, and instead seemed to be seeking a personal moment.

...coulda picked a better place, though.

Cold water dripped down from the roofs above.

"Here," Ivan suddenly said, as he pulled him close. "I have something for you."

Coolness in his palm.

He looked down, pulse racing, and tilted his head.

A wallet.

"Open it," Ivan prodded, and he did so without thought.

The smile was immediate.

His new I.D., staring out at him from behind a fold of plastic. His Russian driver's license, military credentials. Ivan had told him they were tucked safely away in that dresser back home, but here they were. Nothing in the world could have ever been as entrancing as seeing his face there, underneath Russian letters.

His name.

Normal men carried all of these items around with them.

He hadn't ever been normal.

An exhilarating sensation.

Ivan had no doubt had this one in his back pocket, so to speak, and had waited for the right time.

Maybe if Ivan had given it to him the day before, he might have been able to keep it together in the burning field. He could have flipped it open, when his collar got too tight, and remembered that he couldn't choke because he was a soldier.

"I put some money in there, too," Ivan added, as Ludwig tucked the wallet safely in his pocket.

He didn't care about money—never had.

"Have I showed you the money yet? I don't know how much Marks are now, I gotta—"

The identification was all that mattered, and when everything was straight, he reached up, took Ivan's face in his gloved hands, promptly interrupting whatever the hell he was saying, and kissed him upon the lips.

Fingers gripped his waist.

Not an appropriate thing, perhaps, for two uniformed officers to be clenching each other in some dirty alley in the middle of Moscow, in a land where no one was expected to be abnormal, but Ivan was hardly afraid of society.

If anyone had noticed them in passing, then no one dared to acknowledge it, and when they stepped back out into the street, all was well.

With every step Ludwig took, with every corner they rounded, his uncertainty waned.

Even if he didn't do what Ivan wanted tonight, then it wouldn't matter. He might spend the night in the closet, but in the morning Ivan would still love him. He might go crazy at night, but when Ivan opened the door the world would make sense again.

It was more frightening somehow, the thought that he would let Ivan down than it was to imagine the door slamming shut.

The streets grew dingier.

It never once crossed Ludwig's mind that, the farther they walked, he had steadily overtaken Ivan's pace and was walking ahead of him.

Maybe some part of him was as eager to find trouble as Ivan was.

Sometimes, he felt strange.

The sleet that fell around them was hardly bothersome. Ivan's shoulders were soaked, but he looked quite content.

At the end of every corner, Ludwig looked back, caught Ivan's eye, and they smiled at each other.

He wanted to impress.

The sidewalk was slick.

They walked in silence, passing so many people and so many doors, and yet nothing.

Ludwig was starting to let down his guard.

Too soon.

Ivan suddenly spat out something in Russian, and Ludwig turned his head in time to see two drunken girls come stumbling out of the door of a shop, drinks in hand. They staggered on the ice, and nearly crashed into Ivan, which might have been a death sentence, but at the last second they turned, sloshing their drinks.

They may not have bumped into Ivan, but they spilled their drinks on Ludwig.

He reached out, without thought, and grabbed the arm of the girl that had splashed him.

Fur coat. Big hair. Kinda pretty.

Not as pretty as that woman he had once known. From what flashes he could remember, at least; picturing her face had become impossible.

The woman opened her mouth and started to curse him, at least until she caught the glint of the gun in his belt, and then her bleary eyes widened and she looked him up and down, comprehending the uniforms and the stature of the men she had crashed into.

More importantly, the precarious situation she had found herself in.

Silence.

She stared up at him, terrified and pale, and he could tell by her tense expression that his grip was hurting her, even though her intoxication.

Ivan stood back, silently, and just watched.

He had wanted to hurt someone. The anger was still there, pushed down into the pit of his stomach.

That odd feeling of aggression.

He couldn't say why he choked again, and even though he could have slapped her across the face or startled her with the gun, he just gave a tighter squeeze of her arm, a warning, and then let her go.

He let her go.

She wasted no time in running off, grabbing her friend by the arm.

Ivan lifted up his chin in contemplation, and then just started smiling again. Didn't look disappointed. That was good. Didn't look so excited, though, either.

Why had he let her go?

The most obvious explanation was a rather simple one. That she was, in the end, a woman.

Just a woman.

Ivan started walking again, and Ludwig had to speed up to match his pace.

He was so busy berating himself in his head (_why_ had he let her go?) that he didn't even notice when Ivan had stopped.

He should've scared her more.

Ivan's hand was on his arm again, forcing him back, and he felt himself being pulled to the side.

"There's a bar. Let's go."

—what?

The instant those words had fallen from his lips, Ludwig knew; Ivan had no intention of letting him get back to that hotel room until he did as he had so foolishly spoken of.

Hurt someone.

Ivan probably would have burnt Moscow to the ground to avoid stepping into some ratty bar on a normal day, and now he couldn't drag Ludwig inside fast enough.

The second the shoddy door was pushed open, the smell of smoke and beer was damn near overwhelming. Neon lights flickering overhead. Loud voices and louder music.

Shifty people.

He felt out of place.

When they walked in, the chatter died down for a moment, and people turned to stare at them in surprise. Given the crowd that was in here, two well-dressed military men must have been a rather unusual sight. A good few of them shuffled to the door, after they went for a table, and made stealthy escapes.

The people in here were surely dangerous and most of them were likely criminals, yet still, the second they saw Ivan, they cleared out.

Ivan had that effect.

A path was made for them as they walked, and if Ludwig hadn't been so nervous he might have enjoyed the fact that people were scared of them.

Even in the middle of this horrific place, Ivan still pulled out a chair for him.

It took a long time for any of the workers to gather the courage to come over, and when they finally did, they were trying very hard to keep their eyes low and smiles polite. Out here, people seemed to fear their army rather than worship it. Ludwig saw no reason to change that up, and kept his posture straight and his face stern.

The bar was a strange experience.

The last time he'd been in a bar (felt like a thousand damn years ago) _that man _had tried to push him in a corner and drug him.

He hadn't ever had pleasant feelings about bars and clubs.

Still, when Ivan ordered him drink after drink, he took them.

Ivan stared at him the whole time they sat there, smiling every so often when Ludwig crinkled his nose at an unpleasant waft of smoke.

When he felt so inclined, Ivan would reach over and place a hand above Ludwig's, smiling away, but Ludwig could see that his eyes were always just above Ludwig's head, scanning the room constantly for something.

Any kind of situation that he could turn into an opportunity.

All Ludwig could do was sit there and wait for Ivan to start a ruckus.

The hour ticked by without event.

Ivan's constant vigil for mayhem was interrupted only when he stopped to plow through another glass.

With every passing minute, Ludwig felt himself relaxing a little more.

It wasn't too bad in here. He could get used to this, as he got used to everything else.

After a few drinks, after settling in with the dim lighting and the rather exciting air, the thought had suddenly crossed his mind to stand up, grab Ivan's arm, and pull Ivan into a dark corner.

To be the one who instigated, for once.

To be the one who was constantly in Ivan's mind.

He glanced over, trying to gauge Ivan's mood, remembered how irritable Moscow made Ivan and that Ivan was only here so that he could incite Ludwig into a brawl, and thought better of it.

Ah, hell. Not the right time.

Feeling a bit agitated, he took another glass, and put it back.

Maybe next time.

Finally, Ivan looked over at him, and spoke.

"You could have at least hit her."

He had known that this would come up before the night ended.

A gentle chiding.

Ludwig looked down at his drink, feeling a bit abashed, and muttered, weakly, "It was a girl."

"So what?" Ivan asked, with a quirked brow of curiosity. "What, you can't hit girls or something?"

Ludwig shook his head.

Couldn't remember who had taught him that, though.

_'Etiquette, politeness, and poise are the backbones of society, and chivalry should always be kept alive—'_

Ivan saw his silence and reluctance, and just gave a smile.

"You can hit girls, you know. They're just like everyone else."

Ludwig glanced over at him, seeing the very sure look on Ivan's face, and if he had been feeling a little more dangerous, he might have asked, 'Well, then why don't you ever hit Irina?'

Hadn't hit Natalia, either, come to think.

Sure had shot that girl, though.

Nameless.

Irina was too real to Ivan. Natalia was too frightening. They didn't count, perhaps, as 'everyone else'.

Neither did he.

"You know what your problem is, don't you?" Ivan suddenly threw out, and Ludwig could feel the sharpening of his eyes as he looked up.

Bristling.

He didn't know why, but for a moment, he wanted to snip, angrily, 'I don't _have _a problem.'

Such an answer would likely have earned him a trip into the nearest closet (or hospital), and so he just bit his tongue, sent Ivan as close to a glower as he dared, and stayed silent.

He wanted Ivan to admire him, not think him weak.

Ivan actually didn't seem to mind his foul look, and just smiled all the wider.

"Your problem," Ivan began, in a silky voice, "is that _you_ still think there are rules."

A hand reached out and grabbed his chin, firmly.

Ivan's voice and eyes were stern as he said, lowly, "Look at where you are. There aren't any rules out here, except for the ones _I_ make. If you can't figure out whether you should do something or not, you ask _me_. Don't think about if you can. Just do it. You do what _I_ tell you, not what anyone else does. Rules don't apply to you anymore." The grip loosened a bit, and Ivan raised his fingers to brush them down Ludwig's cheek. "Once you figure that out, you'll be unstoppable, you know?"

Unstoppable.

Like Ivan.

Ivan was what he aspired to be.

To be even half as confident as Ivan was. To trust himself, to figure it all out. Unstoppable was a rather enthralling prospect. To truly belong in this world that Ivan had given him.

How did Ivan have a way of taking everything that confused him and making it suddenly so clear? Ivan could make sense of every garbled thing up in his head. Things he couldn't even grasp, Ivan could set down in front of him and link together.

Ivan gave his cheek a pat, reached down to take another drink, and resumed his scour of the room.

Ludwig leaned forward, elbows on the table and face flushed, and kept playing that word over and over in head.

Unstoppable.

Another hour passed.

People came and went. Shadows danced, as the lights flickered.

Outside, the sleet was still strong.

Ludwig zoned out for a while, contemplating Ivan's words.

A world with no rules. How strange. His entire life had been lived abiding by every rule that had ever been set in front of him.

Someone had told him once that rules were meant to be broken, and that had seemed rather like insanity.

Breaking rules? Not _him_.

In this case, however... Well, if there _weren't_ any rules, then he couldn't very well break them, could he?

No rules.

He thought he felt something brush against him, as his mind wandered.

A laugh made him glance up.

Ivan looked up from his glass, cheeks red and eyes bleary, sent Ludwig a long, scorching look, and gave a lopsided smile.

"Missing something?" he uttered, and Ludwig started up a bit at his words, dizzy and disoriented.

It took a minute to understand.

Dumbly, he looked around, eyes squinted, and then looked back up at Ivan rather helplessly.

Missing?

"Your wallet," Ivan elaborated, quite easily. "Didn't you feel him take it?"

A flush of adrenaline woke him up from his tipsy stupor, and he pushed himself out far enough from the table to give himself room to pat down every pocket.

Nothing.

He couldn't find his wallet, no matter how many times he put his hands in his pockets.

Missing, alright.

Somehow, it hit him hard.

For a moment, it was as if the world had been sucked into a black hole.

Maybe it was the alcohol that tripped the wire in his head, or maybe it was everything that he had pushed down since he had come out here in Moscow. Maybe it was the lingering light of flames behind his eyelids. Maybe it was the fact that _that man _had crossed his mind in the forest. Maybe it was that godawful gleam of light that had led to nothing in the station.

Maybe it was just something that had always been there within him, but that had needed Ivan to come out.

Whatever it was that had done him in in that second, it did a damn good job.

Silence. Hardly any air.

Time stopped.

The stillness that came when the water was being sucked back into the ocean.

The beach stood bare.

No wind.

The lights in the bar seemed to dim.

A distant roaring of gathering waves.

The tsunami came crashing forward soon after, washing away every bit of himself.

The anger that blazed up within him then took him by surprise.

Fury, actually.

Had he ever been so angry in his entire life? He hadn't ever known that being so angry was possible, not for someone like him.

Acid.

The closest thing to the biblical wrath that consumed the world in wars.

Not that someone had dared to take something that belonged to him necessarily, but that someone had dared to take something that Ivan had given him. That someone had dared to attempt to take that license, when he had never had one before.

Within that wallet lied his identity.

He felt himself gripping the edge of the table to push the chair all the way back, the scraping of legs on the floor, and he leapt up, feet splayed and eyes wide as he searched the room. He didn't know what he was looking for, but, by God, when he found the son of a bitch—

A hand on his arm.

"He's outside already. Come on."

He didn't even wait for Ivan to lead him, bolting so furiously to the door that Ivan was nearly left behind. It was only because he didn't know who the hell he was looking for that he was forced to stop in the street, stalking back and forth furiously on the slick sidewalk.

Rage.

His fists had clenched so tightly that his nails would have cut into his palms if he hadn't had gloves on.

Ivan finally saddled up next to him, looked around a bit unsteadily, and started walking.

Ludwig followed him.

They turned a corner, passed a few alleys, until Ivan stopped suddenly, like a dog that had caught a scent, and turned his pale eyes towards a dark side-street on the opposite side of the road.

He inclined his head.

"In there."

Ludwig was so goddamn angry that he didn't even stop to really think about it, set his shoulders and feet square, and marched across the street. Didn't even look both ways—he assumed cars would stop, because no one would dare to actually run him over. Maybe that was true, because he made it across the way with no incident, and found himself bathed in darkness as he plunged into the alley.

That wallet was his.

He'd bust down every door in this shithole to get it back.

He'd tear the city apart, to get that license.

He hadn't lifted his hand the day before to stop a single atrocity that he had witnessed, but he sure was lifting it now. To be fair, they all seemed considerably less atrocious now that someone had picked his pocket. The massacre of the students seemed less horrifying than the fact that someone had dared to snatch what was his.

If he had suddenly been given the choice between saving that girl or saving his wallet, he'd have picked the wallet in a heartbeat.

Didn't even know her name, and she had ruined his fuckin' uniform anyway.

Nobody cared about anybody. He was tired of giving effort to those who made none for him.

He just wanted his damn wallet back.

His name.

He valued an object over a life, and that realization didn't make him feel all that terrible, because, in the end, objects lasted longer than people did.

Who was he?

He reached the end of the alley in time to see a figure scaling a chain-link fence.

Honestly, he was surprised at the reflexes that took over him, and he was surprised more at the fact that he hadn't been afraid when he leapt forward to grab a handful of shirt and yank the man back down.

He was in a foreign country, stuck in some godawful city whose language he couldn't even speak, out of his element and pretending to be something he was not, yet still he wasn't afraid when he tossed that man down onto the ground, straight into a pile of garbage.

He was too fuckin' angry to be frightened.

Or he was so frightened that he was angry.

Honestly, he couldn't tell the damn difference. Sometimes they felt exactly the same.

In the darkness, he looked down at the man on the ground, and took him in. A young man, his age no doubt, lean and rather scraggly, and when he looked back at Ludwig, the terror was as evident upon his face as it had been on that girl's.

She had gotten off easy—this man would not.

He felt his hand flying down, felt his fingers fumbling with the clasp on the holster, felt a weight within his hand, and when he saw the glint of the gun in the dim light, it didn't startle him.

The man clenched his hands on the bags of garbage, mouth open as he gasped for breath, and Ludwig saw him suddenly jump a little at the sight of the gun, and yank his hands in to start fumbling within his coat.

Frantic, muttered words in Russian.

He wasn't even worried that the man was looking for his own gun; if no one would ever dare to shoot Ivan, then they wouldn't shoot him, either.

The man finally pulled a wallet from his coat—Ludwig's wallet—and held it forward, hair drenched in the sleet and very clearly pleading.

He lifted the wallet in the air, up and down, clearly trying to say, 'Take it! Take it!'

A long silence.

Ludwig found himself standing still, staring down from above the barrel of the gun.

They were both trembling, although one in anger and the other in fear.

The only sound then was the sleet hitting the roofs above.

Ivan was next to him suddenly, appearing like a phantom as the gun shook in his hand, but there were no words of encouragement. Ivan didn't open his mouth to speak, and was content to keep his wrist still and see where the whole thing went.

The only voices in the alley were the ones up in Ludwig's head.

The man's eyes had gotten so wide that it was possible they could have popped out of his head. He was shaking as much as the gun was, knowing that his fate was very uncertain. Regretting, no doubt, that he hadn't taken someone else's wallet instead.

So angry. He was so angry.

The acid was throbbing in his veins.

The trigger was firm beneath his finger.

No rules.

Ludwig wasn't _dumb_. His head had been fuzzy as hell lately, everything had been misty, but he wasn't _stupid_. He knew what was really going on.

Ivan had given him a wallet because he had known all along that Ludwig, as inexperienced and awkward as he looked, was a sitting duck for a pickpocket, and he knew that Ivan had been sitting there in that bar, waiting the entire time for this to happen.

Ivan manipulated the chain of cause and effect as he saw fit. Ivan crushed the butterfly in one street and the breeze from his foot coming down caused the typhoon in the other.

He _knew _it.

And he realized all the same that he didn't give a shit, whether Ivan had set him up or not—that fuckin' wallet was _his_. That license within it was his.

That identity was his.

No one touched it.

No one.

No rules.

And this time, after all of it...

After all of the nudging and prodding, after all of the persuasion, after running through dark forests, after coming face to face with armed students, after being very nearly shot, after all of that, somehow it was this man before him—this unarmed, terrified, frozen man—that finally made him pull the trigger.

Because this man had held within his hand something that belonged to Ludwig.

No rules—

An explosion.

A thick silence, and then a shriek of pain.

It took him a moment to realize. He looked down at his hand, and this time, there _was _a smoking gun within it. This time, he had taken the gun and aimed it. This time, he had pulled the trigger.

Blood on the pavement.

But he hadn't aimed for the chest, not like Ivan did. The blood was coming from the man's foot.

The wallet fell to the ground.

Christ, the sound of the discharge was still echoing in his ears, and he struggled to hear Ivan when he finally spoke.

Ivan turned to look at him, and asked, quite simply, "Are you going to kill him?"

The man had started crying, pleading in Russian and clasping his hands as he begged.

Kill him.

...huh.

Blood pooled out beneath him.

The whispers in his head were running rampant. Driving him crazy. Arguing with each other. Why couldn't they ever agree?

That pain-in-the-ass voice in the back of his head that called itself 'reason' was fighting with a new voice.

Wrath.

"No," he finally said, with a tilted head, and he wasn't really sure why he smiled then. "Start with the feet. That was what you said." Placing the hammer back on the gun, he tucked it into his belt, jerking his head to the side as he said to the man, "Go on, get outta here."

Didn't need to be told twice.

The man pulled himself up, grabbed the brick wall for support, and started hobbling along. Ludwig let the man stagger away, watching him disappear into the side streets.

Ivan watched, too, and when he looked at Ludwig again, the smile was bright.

"You remembered."

"Of course."

He had done then what Ivan had set him out to do.

Because that had hurt, alright.

Hurting, but not killing.

In the end, the voice of reason had prevailed.

Getting _so_ much weaker, though.

He felt better, afterwards, as much as he had felt better after beating the hell out of the mouthy officer back in Lensk. The more he thought about it, though, the more he regretted not shooting the other foot.

That audacity had earned at least two bullets.

Ah, well. Too late.

He reached down, picked up the wallet, tucked it into his pocket, and pulled off his cap to smooth back his hair.

Too much trouble.

Ivan staggered, suddenly, and nearly fell into the pile of trash the man had previously occupied, until Ludwig grabbed his arm.

Cans from the trash rolled across the asphalt.

This was too much trouble, too.

"You drank too much," Ludwig said, and Ivan just gave a laugh and staggered again, this time hitting the wall.

"No such thing!"

It became increasingly apparent that Ivan was succumbing to the vodka.

He grabbed Ivan to keep him steady, slinging Ivan's arm around his shoulders, and together they stumbled out of the alley.

Ludwig squinted his eyes against the sleet and wind, and looked around.

"Remember the way back?" came the quiet slur at his side, and Ludwig stood there for a moment, Ivan's heavy arm behind his neck, and shielded his eyes to look up at the buildings.

The street lamps lit up the falling sleet blue and grey.

Puddles rippled in headlights.

He didn't know the way back, not really, but if he walked around long enough he was pretty sure he'd take notice of the hotel. It was really the only one worth looking at, so it stood out quite a bit. If nothing else, he could just walk around until Ivan sobered up enough to lead them back.

So, he nodded his head, dug his heels into the ground, and hauled Ivan upright with a grunt. Heavy as hell, deadweight that he was, but somehow Ludwig managed to start carting him along.

It was a good damn thing this hadn't occurred months earlier; he wouldn't have been able to lift up Ivan's leg, let alone all of him.

He was stronger now. Gettin' there. Soon, he'd probably be healthier here than he had been back _there_.

Ivan's clumsy feet dragged along the pavement.

Every so often, he stepped on Ludwig's toes, and it was worth the dull ache in his foot when Ivan turned to him, kissed his cheek, and muttered, "Sorry!"

Sorry. Ivan could croon it with the best of them, but whether or not he could actually _feel_ sorry was up in the air.

All the same...

Ludwig glanced at him, from time to time, as Ivan's bangs were coming loose from beneath his cap, and it occurred to him that Ivan was exceedingly beautiful. One of the most visually pleasing things he had ever seen in his life. Maybe to some people Ivan wouldn't have been all that attractive, but as far as Ludwig was concerned, it was perfection walking at his side.

Hard to focus on any war crime, when the war criminal was so goddamn handsome.

Walking and walking.

A thought struck him, as he slushed through the wet streets, and he asked, "Did you pay back there?"

A low scoff.

"Paying is overrated. Remember what I said? You don't have any rules out here."

Oh. Right.

Hard to adjust to a place with no rules.

They trudged along, Ludwig looking up every so often to try and figure out where the hell they were, and every time he thought he was getting close, it was only to round a corner and realize that he wasn't where he should have been.

Ivan was so _heavy_.

The going was slow.

People glanced at them as they passed, and maybe it was a little less than disciplined, for two soldiers of the Red Army to be wandering through street sludge, uniforms wet and disheveled, one drunk and the other not too far from it.

If Ivan hadn't been a general, more than a few questions might have been asked by the army if they ever found out.

..._way _more than a few.

So many secrets.

As they stumbled down a street that Ludwig was suddenly sure he had already walked once, he stopped and furrowed his brow as he glanced about, and a passing couple sent them a long look.

The man looked over at them, his girl on his arm, and muttered something under his breath, and when Ivan raised up bleary eyes and turned his head to spit something back, Ludwig could feel his brow furrowing ever lower.

And not because he was lost.

The irritation surged back up.

He didn't know what had been said, but he knew that tone of voice.

Maybe that tsunami hadn't crashed all the way, because a second wave was starting to build.

He stopped where he was, stood the drunken Ivan carefully up against the wall of the nearest building, and turned around.

The couple had already carried on.

Not fast enough.

An insult to Ivan was an insult to the entire world he lived in. _God_—didn't anyone understand that this world was all he had? Ivan was everything.

Everything.

He'd given all he had to Ivan.

Ivan meant everything.

Hearing someone back-talk Ivan was like having shards of glass grinding together in his chest.

He couldn't get rid of the anger, no matter how hard he tried. Something was _wrong_ with him, he was sure of it then. Fuckin' whispering in his head wouldn't go away.

Agitation.

He stalked up behind them, his footsteps hidden by the sound of the sleet, clenched his fist, and cuffed the man on the back of his head as he walked.

A sucker-punch, maybe.

He'd sucker-punched before, because that was what _that man _had taught him to do. There weren't any rules of etiquette out here that he had to abide by, anyway, and according to Ivan there weren't any rules at all, so the son of a bitch should have counted his blessings that a low blow to the back of the head was all that he received.

Could have been a bullet.

He'd already pulled the trigger once.

The man whirled around, shouting angrily in Russian, and Ludwig wasted no time in shoving him backwards. He fell, slipping on the sleet, and Ludwig would have hit him again, maybe, if the woman hadn't started screaming at him. He shoved her, too, but she didn't fall, and it was her irritating screeching in his ears that finally got him to back off.

Couldn't leave Ivan alone for too long. He might fall over.

The man pulled himself up quickly and was dragged back by his girlfriend. Wisely, he went with her, thinking better of getting into a fight with two soldiers, drunk or not.

It took a bit of restraint to keep himself from going after them, as they cursed at him over their shoulders, and he only stomped his foot and cursed back at them.

The altercation was quick, yet it seemed significant in his mind.

No matter how much he tried to pinpoint it, he couldn't figure out why he was so _mad_.

He couldn't grasp it.

He had never been like this. At least, not that he could remember. Maybe he was so angry because he had to actually sit there and _think _to remember who he was.

Who was he?

Nothing he had done tonight had felt like something he would do. No thought that had crossed his mind had been familiar to him.

This anger was unfamiliar.

He couldn't _remember_.

_Who are you?_

When the couple had been run off, Ludwig stomped back over to Ivan, heaved a rather huffy breath, and hauled him back upright.

His head was killing him.

He tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. Ivan was leering at him, though, and made it hard to do so.

"Did you understand what he said?" Ivan asked, the vodka heavy on his breath.

Well...

"No."

"Then why'd you hit him?"

Ludwig lifted up his chin, pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and snapped, irritably, "I didn't like the tone."

Oh, _God_, who was he?

He couldn't think.

His name. What was his fuckin' name?

Who _was_ he?

He wanted to cry all of a sudden.

Ivan smiled, sloppily, and muttered then, "You're startin' to sound like me."

Light.

The irritability vanished, as randomly as it had come.

Being compared, in any way, any insignificant way, to Ivan was like finding foothold on the first cloud that led up to heaven. If he couldn't remember who he was, then he could at least cling to Ivan, and try to impose Ivan's identity onto himself.

At least until he remembered.

Ivan laughed, suddenly, a rather high-pitched cackle, and when he spoke, his voice was breathless.

"All he said was, 'Soldiers should know better than to get so drunk.'"

Oh. Well.

All the same, Ludwig gave a 'hmph', and said, "I don't care what he said. Like I said, I didn't like the tone."

Ivan stopped moving for a second, turned his head until their noses bumped, and his smile was strong when he whispered, suddenly, "I love you."

Words like that meant everything.

Ivan was the only man whose life he valued anymore.

He returned the smile, feeling so bleary all of a sudden, and replied, "I know."

Because he did know. Ivan loved him. He had no doubt of that.

When he was angry, when he couldn't remember, when he couldn't _think_, then all Ivan had to do was look at him, speak to him, and Ludwig realized that nothing mattered. Ivan loved him, no matter who he was.

Unconditional.

If he were more like Ivan, then he wouldn't have any more doubts about who he was, either.

That was why that wallet was so important, too. Every time he opened it, he could see himself there and remember. The name might have been a little different than what he had once had, at least half of it, but the photo was still of himself.

If it was his photo, then it was his name.

A while later, he finally caught sight of the hotel amongst the shoddy buildings, and started the trek towards it.

He was exhausted, mentally and physically, by the time he reached the door, and he set Ivan down in the elevator as it went up just to catch a quick breather. Ivan, legs splayed on the floor, leaned up against the wall and grabbed the railing above his head, smiling the whole while at who knew what.

Soft, drunken giggling.

Ludwig looked down at him, at red-faced Ivan grinning away and looking so _happy_, and knew that he would have done anything for that man.

Anything.

The elevator jolted and stopped, and it took nearly more strength than he had left to pick the big guy up again and get him down the hall. Ivan kept burrowing his face in Ludwig's hair, whispering in his ear with crooning words in Russian, and the door couldn't come soon enough.

He was tired.

Tired, yeah. He was tired as hell.

But not out for the count.

The second that the hotel door shut, he found that he couldn't help himself; he whirled around, pushed the tipsy Ivan against the wall, and kissed him for the second time that night.

All that excitement had riled him up.

Hurting someone.

From the way that Ivan was steady enough to suddenly grab his waist and flip them around so that it was Ludwig against the wall, he couldn't help but wonder if he had been had again. If Ivan had stumbled around on purpose.

Teeth sank into his neck, and suddenly it really didn't matter anymore.

He felt himself pulling his gloves off.

Ivan's hands clenched the fabric of the coat as he tried tugging it off, and Ludwig wasn't sure why he threw his arms around Ivan's neck, and whispered urgently, "Tell me my name."

He couldn't bear another minute of being so unsure of who he was or why he was or what his goddamn name was.

Ivan won his battle with the coat and tossed it aside, and pressed his lips against the side of his head as he said, gently, "Ludwig."

Lyudovik.

The mists cleared, he _remembered_, and all was right again.

He loved the way Ivan said his name.

_His _name.

Ivan's gloves joined his own. Hats fell afterward.

When Ivan pulled back and attempted to reach down and unbutton Ludwig's shirt, he succeeded only in stumbling onto his backside on the floor.

Guess he hadn't been fakin' after all.

Bolstered by the sound of his name and far too warm to just let Ivan go to sleep on the floor, Ludwig reached down, pulled off his boots and then Ivan's, then grabbed Ivan by the collar, and tried to drag him back up.

He at least wanted to make it to the damn bed.

Ivan's fingers were warm and calloused as they gripped his wrists.

Somehow, someway, he managed to drag Ivan over and up to the bed.

He got his wish, alright—like before, it might have been precipitous, for when Ivan staggered over far enough and shoved him forcefully back onto the mattress, he made no effort to crawl away, as he once had, and yet he found himself unable to move.

Uncertainty.

Flashes of voices.

Ivan flopped down onto the foot of the bed and dragged himself up.

Whispering.

His shirt was ripped open and yanked off in a blink.

A shiver down his back.

Rough hands fumbling in his belt.

Shadows, creeping in the corners.

No rules.

Ivan's broad chest pressed his own down.

His name was Ludwig.

Ludwig.

The scent of Ivan's damp hair, the mingling of cologne and the smell of the uniform, sweat and vodka.

He was who Ivan told him he was.

"I'm proud of you," came the slur in his ear, and the frightful immobility vanished.

Love.

Ivan was proud of him.

He found his hands at last, reached up to grip them in Ivan's hair, and engaged. He had wanted to drag Ivan into a corner in the bar; this was hardly any different. Ivan hadn't pulled out his gun yet and pressed it into his forehead, and even if he had, Ludwig was so _certain _that Ivan wouldn't hurt him that it might not have scared him anyway.

Ivan wouldn't hurt him.

The shadows crept closer.

Ivan's arms braced as he held himself up, muscle firm and taut when Ludwig grabbed his shoulders. The hair on Ivan's chest poked out from the collar of his wet shirt, half-way unbuttoned, and Ludwig couldn't really remember when his hands had helped Ivan out of it altogether.

Ice, clinking against the glass of the window.

The world might have gone on like normal outside, but something earth-shattering was happening in his head.

The wire in his mind was being tripped again, pulled by something he couldn't see, and when it finally clicked, when the line was crossed, it was like someone had punched him in the chest.

A great inhale, a lurch of his pulse, and it was he who took Ivan's belt within his fists and pulled him down farther. It was he who unclasped the belt and fumbled with the button and pulled down the zipper, and it was he who got the pants down to Ivan's knees. It was he who dug his fingers into the band of Ivan's boxers and yanked them down.

A very foreign sensation, the friction between them, as Ivan pressed against him.

Ludwig couldn't have ever put it into words, but he was fairly certain then, as Ivan grabbed his thighs and lifted them up, that the wire had been more than tripped.

It had been cut clean in two.

Gone.

Maybe the shadows in the corner had dragged him in, because he felt different. He would have said that he didn't feel like himself anymore, but hell—he didn't even know who the fuck he _was_.

He wouldn't know anymore if he was different.

He'd probably be different tomorrow, too.

And the day after.

Whoever had brought the wire-cutter had cut the blue one instead of the red one, because his sanity felt very much like it had been snapped back like a rubberband.

That thought made him laugh a little, and if Ivan thought it strange then he certainly didn't say anything, and was quite happy to kick his pants off of his ankle and be rid of them.

Heat.

Ivan's arms held up his weight as he tried to keep his balance, his intoxication keeping him uncertain as to whether he wanted to pull Ludwig up or let himself fall down. Ludwig couldn't really tell him what to do, because he didn't _know_ what to do, and he had faith that Ivan would eventually get his clumsy hands working and figure it out.

He did. Like always.

Somehow, he got Ludwig's legs up high enough without tottering backwards altogether, and he muttered away under his breath in Russian as he raised a hand to his mouth and spit within it. The hand was quick to fly back down, Ivan pushed all of his weight forward suddenly, and Ludwig could feel Ivan's legs paddling around like a damn cat as he tried to get in position.

Pressure.

Ivan pushed forward, rather briskly, and Ludwig clenched Ivan's shoulders and buried his face, squinting his eyes and strangling his cry at the last second. Come to think, maybe not a cry. Might have been a laugh.

He felt kind of crazy.

Stillness, as Ivan hung his head down and seemed to be either gathering himself or giving Ludwig a second to adjust, and, God, when he finally started moving, it was like a knife in his back.

Perhaps in a literal sense.

It hurt more than he had thought it would.

Nothing unbearable, and nothing he was gonna lie there and cry about. He wondered if Ivan's intoxication was a factor, or maybe Ivan was trying to be gentle with him. He had seen Toris' busted arm; if Ivan had even half a mind to, he could have _really_ hurt him. Ivan could have beat him within an inch of his life and left the bed so covered in blood that the maid would think there had been a murder. Ivan could have twisted his arm and snapped it as easily as he had Toris'.

He didn't.

Ivan's exceedingly dangerous hands lied quite placid, one on the bed and one gripping a leg to keep steady, and if Ivan was hurting him now then it was not intentional, and it was not beyond his threshold.

Anyway, nothing Ivan could do to him now could ever hurt worse than being in _that _room had. Nothing hurt more than stopping still suddenly and realizing he couldn't remember who he was.

He clenched his teeth, bit down, and dealt with it.

All he could do was try to keep breathing under Ivan's weight and attempt to find some good balance between the pain and the creeping sense of pleasure—not necessarily from Ivan's hands or the friction from Ivan's stomach so much as from the fact that he was making Ivan _happy_. That was the most important thing.

He couldn't really say what possessed him to reach up and yank Ivan's hair then, as Ivan moved slowly, except for the possibility that maybe he had wanted Ivan to be a little rougher and the best way to do it was by being rough himself.

It worked.

He knew Ivan, well enough to know that this gentle, easy-going pace was for Ludwig's benefit only. And that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Ivan to do as he pleased, and the tug to Ivan's hair was a silent way of saying, 'You're not going to fuckin' break me or anything, so do what you want.'

As much as the man in the alley didn't need to be told twice, neither did Ivan.

The grip on his leg tightened.

Ivan's shallow breathing grew heavier.

Just like that, a leg was yanked up onto Ivan's shoulder, fingers clenched, Ivan pulled back, dug his feet into the mattress, and slammed back in.

Ludwig did cry out that time, and there was no mistaking it for a laugh because it wasn't. Actually, it had been damn close to a scream, and he clamped his jaw shut because if he did it again then Ivan would go back to that slow pace that was surely boring to him, and it might have been in that moment that Ludwig came to the realization that he would bear any amount of pain just to please Ivan.

That he would have thrown _himself_ into the dark closet, if Ivan had asked him, and sat there obediently still until Ivan felt like opening the door.

Anything to make Ivan happy.

Anything.

Ivan's fingers were leaving bruises, as hard as they dug into his thighs, and he knew that his fingernails were scraping the skin of Ivan's shoulders.

Heavy, breathless grunting in his ear.

He stopped thinking.

Ivan's hand raised up every so often, gripped his throat, gently, and then wound up in his hair.

He zoned into space.

Rustling.

At some point, when the pain had started dulling, when the angle changed and when Ivan stopped pulling out all the way and just pushed against him in shallow movements, when the sleet outside had stopped, Ludwig heard whispering.

He raised his eyes, expecting to see the shifting of shadows and darkness, expecting to see things roaming about in the faint blue light of the city, and saw nothing.

A second of confusion.

He looked the other way, towards the window, and still saw nothing.

It took him a while to realize that it was _him_, whispering in Ivan's ear.

He couldn't remember what he had said, he couldn't say how long he had been doing it, and he couldn't really say that he had recognized his own voice at first. All he knew was that Ivan's hazy eyes locked onto his own, Ivan smiled crookedly against his panting, and leaned down far enough to kiss him.

What had he said?

Didn't matter. No time to think about it.

Ivan's rough hand grabbed him, the pace picked up, Ivan had him so high up that he might have folded neatly in two, and breathing had gone from hard to impossible when Ivan's other hand snatched his neck.

No air.

Blood flow decreased.

The dim room went black.

Dots across his vision.

Behind the daze, behind the lack of sight, caught on that brink of unconsciousness, the whispering in his head seemed to get louder.

Lurid.

Strange thoughts.

Darkness, and not just within the room; up in his head, too.

He dug his nails into Ivan's back, hard as he could, and yanked them up because he knew that it would _hurt_. It was Ivan who grit his teeth, then, to keep a sharp gasp from escaping.

His toes contracted as the pit of his stomach caught fire, and he could hear that Ivan wasn't breathing either, caught in some ecstatic state, head low and feet braced and eyes squinted.

Erratic, furious thrusting.

The fire turned white, and so did his vision for a second, and he clenched Ivan so tightly then that he knew he had drawn blood, bucking up as best he could against Ivan's weight and leg jerking.

Warmth under his fingernails.

Ivan let him go and braced himself on the bed, finally taking a great breath, giving a few more firm thrusts before falling still and sucking in air as hard as he could, his sweaty forehead dropping down onto Ludwig's shoulder.

He let his hand loose from Ludwig's neck.

Air came back.

Ludwig rasped so hard that he nearly coughed, Ivan collapsed on top of him, and his head swam. It took a minute for the lights to stop dancing across his vision and for his lightheadedness to disappear, and when it did, he turned his head, pressed his nose into Ivan's hair, and smiled.

Ivan was god.

Afterwards, as he lied there, staring at the ceiling and heart still hammering away, he realized that he didn't feel bad.

No regret. Not a bit of remorse. Not about anything that had happened that night.

He didn't feel bad about shooting a man. He didn't feel bad about hitting another. He didn't feel bad about letting Ivan crawl on top of him.

He felt no remorse about lying here now, covered in sweat, pinned under someone else and trembling in exertion, he felt no remorse about becoming Ivan's, and he felt no remorse about the loss of something in his head that he couldn't put his finger on.

What had he ever been scared of? This was just like moving into Ivan's bedroom; it had all seemed so much more frightening until he had actually tried it. Pulling the trigger had seemed impossible the other day, and yet, now that he had done it...

Not so daunting.

Ivan was so heavy above him that breathing was barely possible.

His leg threatened to cramp, still up at uncomfortable angle.

Ivan's stubble was scraping his neck.

It hit him then, the thing that Ivan had been trying to make him understand for so long—hurting someone else hadn't hurt _him_. He'd hurt two people that night, and with each one, there had been no pang within him.

Nothing.

No rules.

Ivan's voice, whispering suddenly in his ear.

"I love you."

Ivan's voice was louder than the other ones.

He leaned up his head, as high as he could, fingers still gripping Ivan's shoulders, and when he sank his teeth none too gently in the crook of Ivan's neck, the strangled exhale of breath was worth anything.

Ivan reached up and clenched thick fingers in his hair, wrenching his head backwards so hard that the muscles in his neck pulled and ached, and the whisper in his ear had turned somewhat terrifying.

"I _love _you. You love me too, don't you?"

Another wrench of his hair, harder than the last.

"Don't you?"

The voice that Ivan used when he slipped into the dark waters.

The most frightening sound on earth.

Oh, _God_—he coulda cried then, suddenly, for how he felt. His immediate answer, hardly a gasp, more of a sob :

"_Yes_."

Had he said 'no' or been unable to answer, he was quite unable to fathom the consequences.

Luckily for him, he meant it.

He _meant_ it, so much.

He loved Ivan _so _much.

He had never meant anything more. He couldn't understand what had snapped up in his head, but _something _had, because he suddenly realized that he would have burned the entire world to ashes then if it would've made Ivan smile a little. He'd'a jumped off a fuckin' bridge if Ivan had asked him to.

He'd have gone back _there _and shot everyone he once knew, if it would have made Ivan happy.

Anything.

The fingers let go, and he was the one who took Ivan's hair then, pulling him down so that he could kiss him again.

He _loved_ Ivan.

Satisfied at his answer, Ivan burrowed his sweaty forehead into Ludwig's neck, and was out soon after.

And no one had ever loved him as much as Ivan did.

Ludwig lied there, and stared at nothing.

He smelled like Ivan.

Suddenly, that was the only way he ever wanted to smell.

The hair on Ivan's chest agitated his own, but he made no move to squirm, not against that or the wetness that was irritating his thighs.

Moving might wake Ivan, and he might get up. Ludwig would rather he stayed there, because, God, there couldn't ever be a feeling as good as this. Weight above him and a heart pounding against him. Feeling in place.

To feel _needed_.

Pain was nothing, as long as Ivan was content.

In the light of the moon that had come out from behind the clouds, Ludwig looked over breathlessly at the mirror, and found that he no longer recognized himself.

Pinned under massive Ivan, forehead shimmering and hair matted to his head, he saw his reflection, himself, his eyes silver against the shadows, something of a sneer upon his face, and even his expression was something he had never seen before. He lifted up his hand, fingers across his face, and the eyes that peered out from between them were unknown.

Who was that?

No one he knew.

He almost saw something of Ivan there within him.

That made him smile.

And he realized, too, that that smile wasn't his.

Ivan's.

He just stared at the man in the mirror, feeling surreal and enthralled, until Ivan rolled off of him later and slung an arm over his chest. He turned on his side, faced Ivan, and somehow, someway, he still felt as if he were staring straight into that mirror.

Ivan had suddenly become his reflection.

The glass had shattered at some point, and both sides had merged together.

One.

He put his hand on Ivan's cheek, feeling more as if it was his own, and let his tired mind wander.

Hurt.

When he didn't think about it, when he didn't sit around and wonder about whether it was right or wrong, it wasn't so hard. It wasn't hard to cause harm to others. It wasn't hard to pick up the pen. It wasn't hard to pull the trigger. It wasn't hard to start a fire. It wasn't hard to _hurt _people.

If it made Ivan happy.

The world didn't matter. People didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Except for Ivan.

There was a reason that there were laws against hurting people—because once you did it, it was hard not to want to do it again.

No more rules.

That little voice in the back of his mind, the one that had been withering away for so _long_, the one that had given the last of its strength to stop him from killing that man, finally lied down that night, curled up, and died.

It didn't come back.

* * *

><p>His good mood that had come from speaking about Ludwig had taken a turn for the worse.<p>

It didn't come back.

Eduard, tipsy and restless, had started playing with the radio, and Ludwig had woken up long before to start berating him again over absolutely nothing. No doubt he had earned a good tongue-lashing, over something or another, but now wasn't the best time.

Sleepin' in this shitty Moscow hotel was pretty much hell on earth.

Seeing Eduard drinking and not being able to join didn't help.

_'Gilbert, look at you! What are you doin' here? Roderich is probably waiting for you to call him, but you haven't. You should have let Alfred come, as least he could have kept up with everything. You don't listen.'_

Gilbert couldn't tell Ludwig to shut the hell up in front of Eduard, so he glowered at the wall instead.

The passing in and out of radio stations was starting to annoy him.

He wanted to say, 'Knock it off, you're getting on my nerves.'

He didn't—pissing Eduard off wasn't a great idea. Not with the unholy journey they had ahead of them. He wasn't that smart, but burning through the only ally he had was a damn bad move.

They sat there silently, listening to more sleet battering the windows, and Eduard kept on flipping rather wearily through the radio stations, apparently hoping to catch glimpse of something familiar.

Gilbert stared up at the ceiling, as the squealing and tuning irritated his ears, and Ludwig looked down at him from above.

'_You should pay attention_,' he chided, seriously, '_What if you hear his voice, huh? Why don't you ever listen when you need to?_'

His first thought was to retort, 'So what? Who cares?'

So _what_, if he heard that voice again on the radio? What good would that do?

If he were feeling more childish—that is to say, if he had been feeling more like himself—he might have grabbed the radio and chucked it against the wall just so that Eduard couldn't play with the goddamn thing anymore.

Garbled words every so often.

A flash of music.

Static.

Eduard's hand fell still for a second, brow scrunched, and then he gave an odd, tired sigh.

Nothing.

After a second of hesitation, he flipped the knob, the static shut off, and he flopped down stomach-first on the bed. Turning his face, half-buried in the blankets, Eduard looked over at him, and just muttered, "I swear, can't even find a good radio station out here."

Eduard's lame attempt to make him smile failed.

Miserably.

This time, Gilbert did snap, "So what?"

Eduard just stared at him, and it was obvious that he had something he wanted to say, but not until Gilbert was in a more receptive mood.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes and sent Gilbert a prim glare, muttering, '_Can't even be nice to people that are tryin' to help you, can ya? You're such a brat_.'

Again, he spat, "So what?"

Eduard sent him a strange look.

_ 'Just go home, Gilbert. If you're going to be like this, then I don't even _want_ you to come get me.'_

Those words terrified him.

He tried to soften his voice a bit, hard for him, and finally said, "If you got somethin' you wanna say, you may as well say it. You're not gonna put me in a worse mood than I'm already in."

And that was the goddamn truth.

Eduard hesitated for a second, the flush of alcohol finally appearing upon his face, and he gave a great sigh.

"Well! I've been thinking about it, but I was kinda scared to throw it out there. It's not something I was really looking forward to, but our situation now doesn't seem to be very good." He reached up, scratched his hair, looking very uncomfortable, and tried to trudge on. "Just...bear with me a little, alright? It sounds kinda weird."

"Whatever. Just say it."

Ludwig just shook his head.

Finally, Eduard said, carefully, "I know somebody that might be able to help."

Gilbert sat up so fast that a sharp pain hit his side, and he craned his neck forward, eyes wide.

Before he could open his mouth, Eduard said, quickly, "But there's a catch!"

His adrenaline faded, and he gripped handfuls of blanket.

Ludwig was smiling, and it was the sight of him that gave Gilbert the courage to ask, "What is it?"

Eduard lifted his chin.

"She's crazy."

Ludwig broke into a beam, and purred, '_Who isn't?_'

Well—_that _was true.

"How crazy?"

"Crazy enough that I felt it prudent to mention," was Eduard's somewhat snippy response.

Maybe once upon a time such a tone would have made him swing a fist, but he was too damn jittery to really take offense at Eduard's snap.

He could feel his hair bristling, standing up on the back of his neck in what, for once, was not fear or anger.

Excitement.

A long time coming.

"I'm not sayin' she'll lead us right to him. Hell, even if she does help, it will probably just be her way of trying to get us killed, but it'll be easier if we could talk her into at least keeping a lookout for us. She couldn't stand it when _I _was out there; I'm sure that she'll be glad to try and get rid of your brother. So. What do you say? Do you wanna risk it, or should we just forget it and go on our own?"

Crazy.

Eduard watched him, expectantly, and waited for his call.

He didn't even think about it. He'd take any help he could get.

Any.

There were certainly many holes missing in this, and some part of him wanted to ask why the hell some woman out in the middle of nowhere would even have a care about Ludwig, but he realized it didn't matter.

Anything.

"So!" he finally said, as Eduard eyed him easily, "Let's go find the bitch."

A short silence, as Eduard smiled away, and then he quipped, "Got a death wish, huh?"

Probably.

He always had.

"Scared or somethin'?" he boasted, in a absolute bluff, because _he _was the one that was scared, but Eduard didn't seem fazed by his bold words, and just laughed.

"Hell yeah! Why'd you think I was drinking? I gotta be drunk to even think about gettin' help from _her_. She scares the shit out of me. Ha, you'll be scared, too, when you finally meet her."

"Sure."

Eduard's smile fell for a second, as a darkness flashed over his face, and Gilbert imagined that he was struggling with this whole thing. By all rights, Eduard could have (and probably should have) just abandoned Gilbert to his own devices and gone back to the border screamin'.

Who knew why he didn't. Gilbert didn't pretend to know, and didn't really want to.

When Eduard spoke again, he just said, "Between her and him...hell, I'd almost rather run into _him_, honestly. But hey, you do what ya gotta do, I guess. Sure will be something, seeing her face again." A coarse laugh. "Me and you will end up lyin' next to each other in some boxes by the end of this."

Gilbert couldn't find his bluff this time, and just sat there, knowing that his shoulders had slumped and his ecstatic air had deflated.

He just wanted to go home.

Gilbert lied back down, then, and replaced his hands behind his head.

A little while later, when his mind started wandering, something struck him.

He looked over suddenly at Eduard, and repeated, lowly, "When _you _were out there. Is that what you said?"

A long, long silence.

"That's what I said."

"How—"

"Don't. Just don't. I'm not that drunk."

Shot down, Gilbert turned his eyes back to the ceiling, and listened to Ludwig's deep humming.

He was curious, sure, but he wouldn't press. Whatever was going on with Eduard didn't concern him hardly as much as what was happening with Ludwig.

Ludwig.

The north star.

Every so often, Ludwig's deep humming became high-pitched, as an adult Ludwig reverted occasionally back to the child one.

When he had picked up Ludwig that first time, he had promised it would be forever. If he couldn't keep that oath, then lyin' in a box somewhere was exactly what he deserved.

"Get some sleep," Eduard finally grumbled. "You look like shit. We'll start out of here in a week or two. Try to make it over Yekaterinburg and wait there for the snows to start melting. Maybe in a month or two we'll make it to Lesosibirsk. We've got a hell of a way to go, my friend, so you may as well sleep through most of it."

He tried.

Ludwig lied beside of him again, and stared at him from across the pillow.

Hours later, when Eduard was asleep, Gilbert sent Ludwig a smile, and whispered, fervently, "No matter what happens, I want you to know that I—_oh_. Ludwig, you made me _happy_."

A calm smile from Ludwig.

Ludwig had made him happy. The only thing that ever really had.

The world didn't matter to him, not if Ludwig wasn't in it.

Ludwig stared at him as he lied there, and when the brink of sleep was upon him, when reality turned into surrealism, when being awake was no longer distinguishable from being asleep, Ludwig started whispering.

The godawful shudder of fear that crept down his back couldn't ever have been felt as strongly had he been truly awake.

Not Ludwig's voice.

Someone else's.

He reached for the pillow with heavy hands, buried his head beneath, and tried to shut out the familiar voice in his ears.

_ His _voice.


	23. Chapter 22

**A/N **: Ninja update.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 22 <strong>

Laughing.

Ludwig was laughing.

It was such a strange, unfamiliar sound that Toris, when he had heard it the first time (deep and rough and _sincere_, echoing through the halls with a certain eeriness), just _knew _it was those damn KGB jerks from town, maybe hanging out at the front door and trying their hands at hapless Irina because they knew Ivan was not around.

Hadn't they taken the hint by now? Irina wasn't interested. They'd get the hint once and for all, sons a bitches, when he capped them one in the knees.

Toris came skidding around the corner, hand flying down to his gun, but when he came around and the front door was in sight, he fell still.

Irina was there alright, and someone was definitely chatting her up, but it wasn't the officers.

It was just Ludwig.

He was back from Moscow.

Ivan stood behind him, suitcase in hand, smiling easily as Ludwig allowed Irina to embrace him and run her fingers through his hair and fuss over him. Ludwig was _laughing_, no doubt at something silly Irina had said, and Toris could only stand there.

He could already see it :

This Ludwig was not the same.

He had known all along that this would happen.

Irina put her hand on Ludwig's stubbled cheek, and he leaned forward to place a kiss upon her forehead, murmuring smooth words that were so low Toris couldn't hear them.

Toris didn't recognize this man.

Pale eyes turned, and locked onto his own.

"Hi, Toris. Miss me?"

He didn't recognize that voice. He didn't recognize that expression.

Those eyes.

All the same, he knew it was Ludwig, and when he came inside and extended a hand, Toris took it, because not taking it somehow seemed a bit risky. "Hi, Ludwig," was all he said in the end, and Ludwig smiled. Hadn't seen that smile, either. Ludwig gave him a brisk handshake, clapped his shoulder in friendliness, and walked on.

Some part of him had wanted to say, 'Welcome home, Ludwig! You look great. How many people have you killed so far?'

As he passed, Toris noted that Ludwig smelled different, too.

Like Ivan.

Yikes—no doubt they'd found something to do to pass the time on the train, so to speak, but to see Ludwig and smell Ivan was a gigantic mind-fuck.

Toris watched Ludwig go, and gave a sigh.

Well.

Had been nice knowin' Ludwig, while he had been there.

When the baggage was put away, later on, Toris watched as Raivis came running up to Ivan and Ludwig, saw their uniforms, and started blabbering away. Ludwig had no idea was Raivis was sayin', but it still agitated Toris when he smiled anyway, and promptly removed his cap and handed it to Raivis.

The look on the dumb kid's face was like someone had told him he had suddenly become a king, and when he shoved Ludwig's colonel's cap on his head, Toris was fairly certain that Ludwig had become Raivis' new idol.

Once, that thought might have pleased him.

He might have said to himself, 'Thank God Raivis is lookin' up to a nice guy like Ludwig, instead of someone like Ivan.'

Now...

He stood there, brow low, and couldn't say why it bothered him so much to see the look of admiration upon Raivis' face.

Unnerving.

He realized that he wanted to pull Raivis aside and say, 'You should stay away from him.' He didn't know _this _Ludwig yet—he probably wasn't safe. It was like meeting someone for the first time, even though the look of them was the same.

How strange.

For now, he would watch this Ludwig from afar, figure him out a little, and then act accordingly.

Hopefully, this Ludwig was still an ocean apart from Ivan.

The next morning, he woke up, and set immediately to observation.

Curiosity was the dominant feeling for now. If fear were needed, it would be obvious.

Ludwig walked differently, he noticed that right off.

More confidently. His head was held higher and his stance was a little looser when he strode along, and he had stopped staring at the ground when he walked.

Ludwig had been so clumsy before. His feet didn't waiver now.

He talked differently, too.

A bit more eloquently. His Berlin accent had all but disappeared from his speech, and he stopped clipping off the ends of his words and using slang. He put his words together a bit more neatly, and seemed to think about what he said before he said it.

Ludwig had just uttered whatever came to mind before, rather gruffly. Now, even though he was no doubt as smart as he had always been, he certainly _sounded _smarter.

Toris knew why.

Ludwig carried himself more gracefully, more elegantly, because doing so made Ivan look better.

Upholding Ivan's image, no matter what.

Everything Ludwig did now was for Ivan.

Over the next few days, Toris noticed that Ludwig did everything Ivan said, at the snap of a finger, without even thinking about it.

Like a damn dog.

When Ivan said 'sit', Ludwig sat.

When Ivan told Ludwig to 'come', Ludwig came.

When Ivan said 'stay', Ludwig looked like he coulda _cried_, but he stood still all the same.

Toris was rather happy not knowing what Ludwig would do when Ivan commanded him to attack.

And, just like a dog, Ludwig looked over at Ivan with endless devotion, and Toris knew that, in Ludwig's eyes, Ivan was god. If Ludwig had had a tail, whenever Ivan looked at him it would have wagged so hard that it knocked down everything in its path.

Kinda sad.

He had seen it happening, he had known it would come to this, but it was still so disheartening, somehow, to see Ludwig so submissively complacent around Ivan, after having known the old Ludwig, who would've sooner punched Ivan in the face than smile at him.

The old Ludwig, who had been so proud.

Brave.

This Ludwig was no doubt still proud and brave, but only in instances that were connected to Ivan.

Ludwig was proud, yeah, proud when it came to standing at Ivan's side and pulling off the guise of a soldier with uncanny ease.

Ludwig was brave, certainly, and would have _bravely _thrown himself in front of a car if it meant keeping Ivan's boots from being splashed.

Pitiful.

Being able to see these changes in Ludwig was kind of heartbreaking, in a way, because he could only sit there and look at Ludwig and just know that, if he had been an outsider, he would have been able to look at himself and see such differences.

He was the same as Ludwig.

Days passed, and he kept waiting and waiting, and yet no matter how long he waited, the Ludwig that he had loved didn't come out. All the same, he waited, because admitting that that Ludwig was dead just hurt too damn much.

He waited.

The Ludwig that had called him brother had been so strong, he had lasted so long, he had given everything he had, and maybe it had been just too much and he had finally burnt out.

Toris waited, still.

During the next two weeks, Toris never did catch a glimpse of _his _Ludwig, but he did meet two new Ludwigs.

The first one, the one that had walked through the door that day, might have been mistaken for the original Ludwig by one who hadn't known him very well. The first Ludwig was Ludwig. Just a little different.

Toris had already taken note of most of his differences, but saw a few more here and there.

This Ludwig drank more. Held his head up. Dressed neatly. Sometimes, he could be a little moody. He was still mostly friendly though, and Toris had yet to find a reason to avoid him.

Just wasn't the same as the old one.

The second Ludwig was Colonel Müller.

Not quite as friendly as the other, but he didn't make too many appearances, at least not within the house, so meeting Colonel Müller wasn't that big a deal. All you had to do was speak a little more politely, keep your posture a little straight, nod when expected to, and you survived an encounter with him with incredible ease.

If you irritated him, he might send you stern looks of agitation, and he might snip a little, but that was all.

Colonel Müller wasn't all that bad.

More like running into your boss on your day off. Unpleasant, but nothing to regret as long as you played your cards right.

Life went on.

In lieu of _his _Ludwig, Toris settled for the first new Ludwig, because, apart from being obsessed with Ivan, he wasn't too bad, and he was better than nothing.

Brother.

Toris had assumed there were only two Ludwigs, but he soon found himself proven wrong.

Actually, there were three.

The third Ludwig had made an appearance only once.

Just once.

And Toris was damn grateful for that, because the third Ludwig was Ivan.

The morning he had come out, for the first time, had been a frightful experience.

Toris woke up to the sound of screaming.

He knew it was Ivan, just knew it.

Going into one of _those _moods.

By the time he got downstairs and tracked down the commotion, the screaming had stopped, but he opened the door all the same.

It hadn't been Ivan that was screaming, that much was obvious; Ivan was sitting quite nonchalantly at his desk, paper in hand, and was reading as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

It was Ludwig, hair sticking up rather messily and dressed in Ivan's clothes, that was stomping back and forth, breathing through his mouth and very nearly fuming with anger.

His pulse raced in his neck.

Face flushed red.

Hands clenched and teeth gritted.

Toris didn't know what had set Ludwig off.

Maybe an unpleasant thought had crossed his mind. Maybe someone had slammed a door too hard. Maybe he had gotten something on his shirt.

Maybe it had been nothing at all.

Ludwig stalked back and forth, jaw clamped and fists clenched and eyes swirling, and Toris could only stand there in the doorframe, somehow fascinated. Terrified, absolutely, but fascinated all the same.

To see Ludwig, once gentle Ludwig, so consumed with wrath, was morbidly eye-catching.

He leaned himself against the frame, and watched.

Ludwig stalked so hard and fast back and forth across the room that he nearly slammed into the walls.

Ivan glanced up from his paper, hardly concerned, and nearly leered when he drawled, 'Calm down. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Sit down before you hurt yourself.'

Toris had been damn-near stunned.

_ 'Calm down.'_

To hear those words coming from Ivan, to hear Ivan telling someone _else _to calm down, was like waking up one morning and realizing that his bed was up on the ceiling.

Ludwig, still so furious, turned around, bumped into the desk, and promptly shoved a mug and everything else right off of it in his rage.

The glass shattered on the floor.

Ludwig had turned then, maybe to cause more hell, and suddenly saw Toris leaning in the doorframe.

A short stillness.

Within that glimpse, that split-second, Toris had seen something terrifying in Ludwig's eyes.

Midnight.

A flashing of lightening. The storm, swirling overhead.

Only a second, though.

Ludwig blinked, straightened up a little, took a great breath, and God help him, Ludwig had looked so _confused _suddenly. His eyes had cleared of the storm only to be replaced with fog.

Ludwig stood there, still and quiet, so lost, and then he gave a sigh, as if something had been flipped on inside of his head and he was coming back down.

He finally lowered his shoulders, loosened his face, and had said, 'Hi, Toris.'

Toris had smiled at him, as best he could.

'Hi, Ludwig.'

He made sure to say _Ludwig_; the best way to keep Ludwig from being Ivan was to remind him of who he was.

There had been a short silence, and then Ludwig had walked over to the desk, leaned his back against it, and as his palms held up his weight, he swept his eyes over the room, brow scrunched in thought, and it was obvious that if he remembered being so angry, then he certainly didn't remember _why_.

His glance caught sight of the shattered mug shortly after, and when he knelt down to pick it up, he looked up at Ivan and gave a weak, half-hearted smile, as though Ivan would somehow remind him of what he had been doing.

Confused.

Toris stood there, until Ivan reached down and put a huge hand on Ludwig's cheek, until Ludwig took Ivan's wrist and the smile grew stronger, and then he turned and walked away.

That was the only time the Ivan-Ludwig had come out, and Toris decided that it would be wise to do everything in his power to keep it that way.

Still...

When he thought about it, later on, the Ivan-Ludwig was still half Ludwig, and Ludwig was still, somewhere in there, a gentle soul.

The darkness was there, but Toris couldn't say for certain that Ludwig would have harnessed it and acted upon it as Ivan did. Maybe the darkness was too quick—a match that was struck, but before Ludwig could start a fire it burned out and just left the scent of smoke.

Ludwig could form the darkness, sure he could, but he couldn't use it yet.

How much longer would that last?

The obvious answer was rather frightening—only until Ludwig killed someone.

One murder was all it took, and the floodgates would open.

With every single day that went by, Toris lamented more and more.

Ludwig.

He missed Ludwig.

It was sadder, somehow, to miss someone _so _much when they were still very much in front of you, at least physically.

To see Ludwig, and yet not.

Ludwig was gone.

It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to cling to brothers, he just kept losing them.

His fault—he shouldn't have let Ludwig go to Moscow.

Days passed.

* * *

><p>Screaming.<p>

Ivan was screaming.

Toris could hear it from downstairs, and found himself looking up at the ceiling.

This time, it _was_ Ivan.

And Toris could only wonder what poor Ludwig had done now, assuming he had done anything at all.

Ah, hell. Ivan was in one of _those_ moods.

He thought about going up and being nosy again, but, honestly, he was too scared.

Ludwig couldn't do anything with the darkness under the surface yet, but Ivan sure as hell could. And, anyway, if there was anyone that could withstand Ivan's night, then it was Ludwig.

Ludwig, who Ivan adored.

So Toris just sat there, and listened.

The screams only lasted a few minutes. Ivan's voice, high-pitched and cracking with the effort of shrieking, and sometimes he heard a quiet, gentle murmur that was Ludwig. Hardly an argument; Ludwig would never dare to actually raise his voice and scream at Ivan, not Ivan. He no doubt gave his best effort to speak up and calm Ivan down, but he wouldn't ever argue.

Nobody argued with Ivan and came out unscathed, not even Ludwig.

Ludwig knew his place, like everyone else did, and just rode out the storm.

This was just a part of life here.

After a while, the screaming abruptly stopped, and there was a dull thud. Toris knew it was Ivan, wrenching back his fist and slamming it straight into the wall, no doubt somewhere very close to Ludwig's head. Toris could envision it up in his mind, and he was fairly certain that Ludwig, no matter how close Ivan's fist came, didn't flinch, and stood quite still. Eventually, Ivan would regain control of himself again, and even though there was probably a hole in the wall, Ludwig would just smile.

Ivan, coming out of that cloud, would turn his eyes down to Ludwig, and break into a beam, as if seeing Ludwig for the first time.

Later on, the door shut, and Toris could see, in his perhaps overactive mind, Ivan and Ludwig walking down the hall, hand in hand and crooning to each other like schoolgirls.

As if nothing had happened.

Ludwig never flinched.

Because Ivan would never hit Ludwig.

Maybe just because Ludwig wasn't afraid.

Ludwig adored Ivan, as much as Ivan adored him.

Made him sick.

Toris watched them interact sometimes, and he couldn't really understand it. He couldn't understand what went through Ivan's mind when he touched Ludwig's cheek. He couldn't understand what went through Ludwig's head when he took Ivan's hand and brought it down to his lips to place a kiss on the palm. He couldn't understand what Ivan said when he leaned in and whispered in Ludwig's ear. He couldn't understand why Ludwig smiled and exhaled.

Ludwig and Ivan, somewhere back there, had created their own universe.

Toris wasn't in tune with them enough anymore to be able to see into it. He could see the light from the galaxies and stars, shining from a distance, but every time he tried to look deeper he was intercepted by a black hole or an asteroid field.

Whatever they did, whatever they said to each other, whatever went on in their minds, Toris couldn't understand anymore.

They had transcended him.

Static.

They created radiation, as much as any stars did, and the waves were starting to crash down upon the earth.

Pulsing.

* * *

><p>Crying.<p>

Ludwig was crying.

Toris walked through the halls one day, minding his own business, and when he passed by a door, he thought he heard the muffled sound of crying.

He stopped in his tracks, turned his head back, and furrowed his brow. He listened, hard, and backtracked a little.

Sobbing.

A strange, eerie sound, within these silent, empty halls.

It didn't take him too long to pinpoint the sound. He leaned in towards the door in question, face tense in concentration, and he was certain. Behind the door, for whatever reason, Ludwig was crying.

The sound was different, somehow, than what he remembered from when Ludwig had burst into tears in Ivan's office.

He grabbed the doorknob, and had very nearly pushed it open when another sound stopped him short.

Whispering.

As much as he had recognized Ludwig's sobs, he recognized Ivan's whispering.

A shudder.

Ludwig crying was frightening on its own. Adding Ivan's whispering into the mix was damn beyond terrifying, and Toris wouldn't lie and say his heart hadn't been hammering as he had turned on his heel and bolted off.

Didn't wanna know.

He didn't know what they did in their spare time, he didn't know what unholy things Ivan whispered to Ludwig, he didn't know what muddled thoughts were trudging through Ludwig's head, and it made him a shitty human being but Toris was _glad _all the same that he didn't know.

Keep it that way.

If whatever Ivan was whispering was enough to make stoic Ludwig break down into tears, then he didn't wanna know.

Maybe Ivan was tearing down another wall in Ludwig's head. Maybe Ivan was pinning Ludwig down on some surface and hurting him. Maybe Ivan had locked Ludwig in the closet.

...or, more probably, Ivan was crooning endless devotion, and Ludwig was crying because, for some godawful reason, Ludwig just loved Ivan _that _much.

Not knowing was better.

A horrible sensation; guilt.

Ludwig crying.

Weeks passed.

March was ending.

Ludwig was thriving.

One evening, after a day of being completely absent, Ludwig finally appeared, and when Toris saw him in the hall, he felt a horrible burst of something that was almost _joy_.

Ludwig was walking towards the kitchen, and Toris saw his state immediately.

Limping a bit, clothes disheveled and hair rumpled, he stumbled through the halls, forehead and shirt soaked with sweat, blood stained his collar, and the bruises on his arms and face were obvious even from a distance. Black eye and split lip. Breathing through his mouth and wincing with every step he took.

Ivan had roughed him up.

Ludwig?—Ivan _never _hit Ludwig.

And, God help him, Toris almost felt joy.

It was horrible, sure it was, but some terrible part of him wanted for Ivan to just beat Ludwig senseless one day for no reason so that Ludwig might understand a little the world he lived in.

He wanted someone else to _understand_.

He wanted Ludwig to understand.

(Granted, since Ludwig had been around, taking all of Ivan's attention, Ivan hadn't even noticed Toris' presence, let alone lashed out at him, so maybe this was an instance on his part of looking the gift-horse in the mouth.)

Rushing forward, he came to a halt before Ludwig, who smiled down at him calmly, and said, more eagerly than he meant to, "Wow, Ludwig! What happened to _you_? What did you do to make him so angry?"

Enthusiasm? Check.

A second of silence, and then Ludwig's smile widened and he laughed, voice deep and smooth and unconcerned, and finally said, "Angry? Nah. Nothing like that. Ivan's teaching me—oh, damn, what did he call it?"

Ludwig trailed off, thinking hard, and finally made a playful fist, punching Toris very gently on the chest.

Toris understood, and felt the first twinge of disappointment.

"Oh, you mean systema? He's teaching you, huh?"

Damn.

The way Ludwig said Ivan's name was almost as frightening as the way Ivan crooned Lyudovik.

Utter adoration.

Of _course _Ivan would teach Ludwig the art of systema. Why wouldn't he? Ludwig was everything that Ivan had ever wanted; tall, handsome, strong, brave and loyal. Fearless. Ivan had already taught him to shoot—why not teach him hand-to-hand combat too? Why not teach him to knife fight? Ivan would be eager to have someone to spar with in his spare moments, if only to release some of that need for violence that lay within him, and Ludwig was probably just as eager to learn the art that KGB officers were trained in.

Talk about sneezing on the mountaintop.

Weren't Ludwig and Ivan already unstable enough together? Did Ludwig really need to become even _more _dangerous? More aggressive? Did Ivan need to take what was already a loaded rifle and saw the safety off?

Was it necessary to turn Ludwig into a lethal weapon?

Obviously, Ivan thought so.

He should have known.

This would cause an avalanche, eventually.

There was little to be done about it, though, and Toris could only observe Ludwig's black eye, and ask, warily, "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yeah," came Ludwig's cool response, as he reached up and wiped his split lip with an absent hand, and his smile seemed unshakeable, despite the bruises. "I'm just not very good yet. Obviously. But I'll get it!"

Toris' heart sank.

Ludwig _would _get it. Ludwig seemed to get everything.

"Oh," was his dumb response, and his disappointment was mingled with guilt.

He should not have wanted such horrible things to befall Ludwig just because they befell him.

Finally, he managed to say, weakly, "Well, keep at it."

"I will."

Maybe, if nothing else, Ludwig would one day get a shot in and give Ivan a black eye, and maybe that would make everything alright somehow, in the end.

The next day, when he heard a scuffle from within a room, Toris could only imagine Ivan, slashing away with knife in hand, trying to spur a bruised Ludwig into moving faster.

Somehow, up in his head, Ludwig was still smiling, even as the knife came too close.

Strands of blond, drifting to the floor.

Ludwig's hand, not getting out of the path fast enough.

Afterwards, when Ludwig was bruised and bleeding, Ivan probably shoved him against the wall, ran a soothing hand up and down his cheek, and threw out cooed words of affection and admiration.

He could hear Ivan's silvery voice in his head.

_ 'Poor thing! Look at you. I'm sorry I went so rough on you, but you're doing so well! Here, I'll make it feel better—'_

And Ludwig just smiled away, as blood trickled down his palm. When Ivan kissed him, he lifted up his bloody hand to Ivan's cheek, and turned Ivan's pale stubble red.

The whole damn thought terrified him a little, and he made a point of casting it aside.

Even if he didn't think about it, though, the effect of Ivan's training was obvious.

Every time he looked at Ludwig, it seemed, he was healthier.

The wan, skinny Ludwig that had frequented this house in the beginning was long gone.

Through his shirts, Toris could see the muscle forming. He filled Ivan's shirts in much better than he had before. His shoulders and neck were firmer. His thighs were thicker. The veins on the backs of his hands were more visible beneath the skin.

A tiger, that had somehow found its way out of the forest and into the house.

Ludwig was strong. Ludwig was fast. Ludwig was smart. Ludwig was bold. Ludwig was fearless.

Ludwig was _dangerous_.

When Ludwig came around, Toris realized that he was always wide-awake. Ludwig stepping into the room was better than a few cups of coffee, because the rush of adrenaline kept him on his toes.

Best to be sharp-eyed and fully aware around Ludwig.

Just in case.

Inside the house, for the most part, Ludwig was still Ludwig, and Toris didn't feel as if Ludwig would ever hurt him, not _him_, but if something agitated Ludwig or if he woke up in a bad mood, then maybe the ice thinned a bit.

Ludwig wouldn't hurt Raivis, because Raivis adored him, and he wouldn't hurt Irina, because Irina was bound to Ivan by blood.

Toris wasn't sure where he found himself in this new Ludwig's affections.

Ludwig had called him brother, in that car back in the Ukrainian field, but that Ludwig had still held traces of the original—the dead Ludwig.

Did this silkier Ludwig still think of him as a brother?

For his sake, he sure as hell hoped so.

The Ivan-Ludwig might not love him as much as Ludwig did, nor quite as much as Colonel Müller.

Careful steps.

Tiptoeing around.

Toris knew it would be best to avoid Ludwig altogether, but he couldn't seem to do it.

He still loved Ludwig. Too painful, to let him go.

Days later, Ludwig stood in front of the mirror, glossing himself into neat perfection for the day, and when he turned around, he put his hands on his hips and said, quickly, "Toris."

It hit Toris then, like a ton of fuckin' bricks, that he had snapped his head over and said, immediately, "Yes?" as much as he ever had when being addressed by Ivan.

Before Ludwig had gone to Moscow, it had been him that had commanded Ludwig's attention. Not anymore. He had never been wary of Ludwig, either. Kinda was now, though. Better not to antagonize him.

Ludwig just smiled at him, every strand of hair perfectly in place, and he asked, "Who am I?"

For a moment, Toris had the mind to open his mouth and say, 'Ivan.'

Because that was mostly what he saw now when he looked at Ludwig, A lither, paler, gentler Ivan.

Gentler? Yeah. Sure. Maybe. But still Ivan.

In the end, Toris just said, "You're Ludwig."

And Ludwig just smiled all the wider, and replied, "Thanks. I forget sometimes."

As if they were having a completely normal conversation.

Ludwig didn't know who he was anymore, and sometimes Toris didn't, either.

Today, though, Ludwig was Ludwig.

Tomorrow, depending on the mood, he would be Colonel Müller.

The day after, maybe something would agitate him and he would be Ivan.

Toris couldn't say that he really cared for any one of them. The only Ludwig he had ever liked no longer made any appearances, and no matter how long he kept trying to wait, it was obvious that he wasn't going to come back.

That Ludwig had died off, somewhere in the snow.

All the same, of the three, this Ludwig was likely the most amicable. So Toris reached over, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a shake.

"Come on. I'm gonna put you to work on my papers. How's that sound?"

Ludwig just smiled.

He led Ludwig down the hall, and it crossed his mind that, if he had answered Ludwig's question with Ivan's name, then Ludwig probably would have burst into tears of happiness.

They sat down soon after, alone together, and Toris might have enjoyed having a moment with Ludwig if he hadn't noticed something.

It occurred to Toris then that Ludwig sat differently than he once had.

Taking a seat at the desk, he leaned over and placed his elbows on the table, feet crossed underneath him and face loose, seemingly happy to engage in whatever Toris had in store for him. He picked up the pen from the table without a second thought.

Before, Ludwig had leaned back in his chair, hands tucked in his lap and feet splayed, always looking around in case he would need to make an escape.

He sat easily now, and took the papers that Toris handed him with a smile.

Too eager.

Why that bothered him, he couldn't say.

So much about this Ludwig bothered him.

All the same, he showed Ludwig what to do, and let him try his hand at it. All he had to do was put his signature at the bottom. That was all.

Nothing grand.

Toris probably shouldn't've—letting Ludwig play around with the paperwork might have just bolstered him more.

Too late.

Whatever the consequences, Toris found that he was glad to have Ludwig away from Ivan for a while.

Pens, scratching paper.

Ludwig worked very diligently, and sometimes Toris looked over to see him biting his lip or poking his tongue out, as he scrutinized something with intensity.

For all the good it would do. Ludwig couldn't read Russian, but seemed happy to slap his signature on stuff all the same. He must have loved writing his new name, because he blazed through the pile quickly.

"What's this, Toris?" Ludwig suddenly asked, and Toris took the pen from his mouth and leaned over.

Ludwig saw numbers, and was interested.

"Ah. Nothin' important. Just budgets. Look, see that one? That's the current budget for the tanks. And that one there is the budget for the bullets. That one's for field doctors. See? All you do is just round them out and make sure that you're keeping everything even and not blowin' your budget. If you want to give more funds to one, you gotta take away from another. Get it?"

Ludwig nodded his head, and said, surely, "Yeah, I get it."

With that, Ludwig took the pen, and carried on.

The rest of the time went smoothly, as Ludwig chatted with him and laughed like all was well in the world, and, hell, Toris had found himself laughing a little bit there too.

Afterwards, though, when the work was done and Ludwig was carting Raivis around (his colonel's cap down on Raivis' head), Toris shuffled through the papers, and felt his brow lower a little.

Ludwig had changed Ivan's budget.

Bastard had taken a good thirty percent of the medical budget and given it over to ammunitions. At the bottom, in neat writing, was a scribble :

_ 'The Red Army doesn't get sick—put some of the doctors back in uniform.'_

He stared at the paper for a long time, before forcing his eyes away and tucking it within in the others.

Couldn't say why he felt a little irritable afterwards.

Had he thought that this Ludwig was the most amicable?

A mistake, perhaps.

To people he knew, really knew, to everyone in this household, this Ludwig was harmless—that was true. All one had to do was lift his head and see the way that Ludwig treated Irina, like she was a fuckin' queen, to see the way he had suddenly become Raivis' new idol, to see the way that Ludwig coddled even the cat, and there would be no doubt that Ludwig was a perfect gentleman. Sweet. But all it would take was one look at that little note on that page to realize that, to anyone who happened to be outside the door, to anyone whose name Ludwig did not know, this Ludwig was just as unpredictable and dangerous as the Ivan-Ludwig was.

Darkness.

Maybe...

He forced the thought down.

Nah. Better not to mull on it.

Sometimes, though, when he couldn't help it, when he found his mind wandering, Toris considered that maybe Ludwig, in the right conditions, was more dangerous than Ivan.

That if Ivan really _could _tap into Ludwig's darkness, that maybe it would be a midnight to Ivan's dusk.

That horrifying glimpse of it that day, in Ludwig's eyes.

Ludwig was—had been—so nice. So nice.

It was the nicest people, perhaps, the ones who were willing to let others take advantage of them, the ones that bit their tongue and put themselves in precarious situations, the ones who were constantly giving and giving and giving, who were the ones that were the most dangerous when they finally snapped.

He might have been right.

One evening, as they sat in the foyer, Ludwig and Ivan were sitting together as Toris scribbled away on some papers, and Ivan, whispering something Toris couldn't hear, had turned Ludwig's attention to the map hanging on the wall.

Toris watched as Ivan prodded Ludwig on with another whisper, and Ludwig suddenly stood up.

Ivan smiled.

"What would you like to do?"

About what? Nope; didn't wanna know.

Ludwig looked over the map, one hand in his pocket, and Toris watched as he tilted his head.

The swirling of darkness in his eyes was fairly evident.

Suddenly, Ludwig said, "I'd like to redraw these damn borders, is what I'd like to do."

Ivan looked up, leered a little, and only responded, "Well, I'll take that to Brezhnev. Last time I checked, colonels and generals weren't allowed to split up countries."

Ludwig just clicked his tongue, eyes still scanning the map, and heaved a sigh.

Toris glanced up from his papers, and for some reason, he _smiled_ at the sight of huffy Ludwig, lamenting the fact that he didn't actually own the world like Ivan told him he did.

Ha—look at Zeus over there, forging his fuckin' thunderbolts.

Couldn't throw 'em yet, though, so why bother?

What had happened in Moscow after he had left? What had flipped the switch?

Ludwig was gone.

With a shake of his head, Toris could only return to his work and listen to Ludwig muttering under his breath.

It did occur to him, though, that no matter how many times Ludwig looked that map over, never once did his eyes fly over to Germany.

Not once did he glance at Berlin.

As if, somehow, Germany just didn't exist anymore.

The skies kept getting more turbulent.

* * *

><p>Restless.<p>

Ivan was restless.

One morning, Ivan called Toris into his office.

Toris noticed immediately that Ludwig wasn't there.

Being alone with Ivan, after so long, was a rather alarming sensation.

Ivan only ever wanted to be around Ludwig these days, so the fact that he found himself standing here alone in the office with him was enough to have the hairs on his neck standing on end.

What had he done this time?

His mind had only been half-working lately.

As it turned out, he had done nothing at all.

Ivan just looked up at him, eyes lidded with weariness and looking a little rough, and said, "There's a meeting in Yakutsk. Nothing big, just a few conversations on upcoming drills and the whatnot, changing a few rules here and there. I can't say that I find myself particularly inclined to go. So. I'm sending you in my stead. Just remind them that I don't like anyone fuckin' around with the protocols I've got set in my sections and you'll do fine. Make a good impression."

Meh—couldn't say he was looking forward to driving a week in this ice, nor was he much interested in these boring meetings, but Ivan was _telling_ him, not asking him, so his decision had already been made.

Of course Ivan didn't want to go. Doing so might mean parting with Ludwig, and God forbid that Ivan spend five fuckin' days without Ludwig licking his boots.

Torture, no doubt.

So Toris just said, "Sure."

Ivan fell still, resting his forehead against a balled fist, and Toris observed him a little.

He had gotten so used to seeing Ivan in that constant elation of being around Ludwig that he had almost forgotten what a normal Ivan looked like.

Not so love-struck, now, sitting here in his office alone and in a less than giddy mood.

Tired, irritable, loving to wear his uniform and have control but loathing having to actually put in work and meeting hours for it, unshaved and uncombed, clothes wrinkled and collar unbuttoned, brow creased and pale lashes long over his eyes as he squinted, the weather-worn freckles visible in a light dusting beneath his eyes and over the bridge of his nose.

Looking his age, without Ludwig here to make him light up like a little kid.

His voice was different, too, but maybe that was just because when Ivan spoke in German all he did was croon and murmur, and when he spoke in Russian he spoke normally. His voice was higher in Russian than it was in German, and yet somehow it was more frightening as well. Ivan was semi-fluent in German by now, but not so much that he could speak quite as eloquently as he could otherwise, and it was always a little strange to hear him muttering to Ludwig, using simple words that most college kids studying a language would have learned in their second-year class, and then to see him turn around, revert back into Russian, and remember how fuckin' _smart _he was when he started talking.

Around Ludwig, Ivan was a hyper teenager.

Alone, he was an adult with a nasty temper.

The shadowed side of the moon.

When Ludwig wasn't around, Ivan was just Ivan, and Ivan was always a breath away from agitation.

Huh.

Ludwig might have become something of a bullet-proof vest for this household, because when Ludwig was around Ivan, there seemed to be a much greater threshold for Ivan's patience and sanity.

"Where's Ludwig?" he asked, suddenly, and Ivan ran a rough hand through his messy hair.

"Asleep still."

Unusual.

Another one of those horrible images flashed in his head.

Ludwig was probably worn out, alright, maybe after a long day of learning systema that had turned into a long night of something perhaps a bit rougher, and when Ludwig finally did crawl out of bed, he'd be as bruised and bloody as he was when he walked out of the room after a spar.

He grimaced a little, and tried to think of other things.

Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Ivan peered up at him suddenly, the circles under his eyes obvious, and the look he sent Toris was full of almost as much distaste as the images in his head made Toris feel.

"You've been spending a lot of time with him, lately," came the low mutter, and Toris shifted a little, trying very hard to keep still and straight as Ivan stared him down. "Every time I look up I see your mug around him. Why's that? You certainly weren't so interested in keeping an eye on him when that was exactly what I told you to do."

Damn.

The sad thing was that it was true.

When Ivan had told him to watch over Ludwig, he had refused. Now that _his_ Ludwig was gone, Toris stayed with him as much as possible. He had lost one Ludwig because of his stubbornness. Losing the only amicable Ludwig left to the Ivan-Ludwig was a terrifying notion.

He couldn't very well say that, though, so he opened his mouth and said, as coolly as possible, "He's my friend."

Wrong answer.

A silence, as Ivan stared up at him, a breathless half-leer on his face, and then he threw back his head, and laughed.

A high-pitched cackle, breaking every so often with the effort as his voice hadn't warmed up enough yet for this, sometimes becoming so damn eager that his voice died altogether and just a wheeze came out, and Toris couldn't help but clench his fists and shiver a little.

Ivan's laugh.

A terrifying sound.

When Ivan finally spoke, when he finally got his laughter under control, when his shoulders stopped shaking, when he lowered his head and rested his forehead back down on his palms, when he gave a few more chuckles as he tried to gather himself, when he finally _spoke_, his words stung worse than any punch could.

"Friend! Your _friend_? Ha, Toris! Oh, Toris, you're so—Wh-who would be friends with _you_? You're so fuckin' pitiful, Toris, no one would ever want to be friends with _you_!" Another burst of breathless laughter. "You think he's your friend! Oh, oh, Toris, I can't even—! That Ludwig—oh, God, you make me laugh—that Ludwig would _ever _be friends with you! Ludwig, as brave as he is, friends with a coward like you! Oh, I can't breathe anymore, you son of a bitch, you're so—"

Ivan trailed off, unable to speak anymore, and just wheezed out his last few laughs.

Toris, despite the ache in his chest and his trembling hands, just said, weakly, "Ha."

Well.

There went his pride. That one had hurt, that much was certain.

All he could do was wait for Ivan to stop giggling, and try not to think about it too much.

In the end, Ivan was right.

Always was.

He was no match for Ludwig, not for Ludwig, and maybe any friendship he had known had been all in his head. If Ludwig had called him friend, once, then the new Ludwig might not mean it quite as honestly.

He was a coward, in one way or another.

Afterwards, when Ivan settled down and shook his head, turning a sneering smile back down to the desk, he sighed a little, and seemed keen to keep speaking about Ludwig.

"Ah, hell. Maybe you should try to be friends with him. He can teach you a couple of things about holding your own. He's gotten so much better. Can't you see how much he's improved? He'll be everything I ever wanted." Ivan grabbed a pen and started tapping it restlessly on the desk, suddenly looking a bit brighter.

Toris squirmed.

Everything Ivan had ever wanted.

Weakly, Toris managed to whisper, "For what?"

Ivan smiled, almost dreamily, and when he spoke, he neatly dismissed Toris' inquiry, instead murmuring, "It's there. It's right there. I can _see _it." He reached up, and clenched his fingers the air, as though trying to grab smoke. "I just haven't _touched _it yet. But I can see it. He just needs one more push. It's there. It's always been there. He just couldn't ever tap into it. But _I _can get it out of him. Just one more push, and that will be that. I'll have him."

Have him.

"What's there?" Toris asked, even though he really didn't want to know.

Ivan elaborated, far too cheerily and almost breathlessly, "Darkness. It's there, just underneath. Can't you see it, too? It's there. I'll get it. I'll get it, no matter what I have to do. Once he really learns that there aren't any rules anymore. Anymore boundaries. I'll have him." Ivan snapped his fingers, as if trying to signify the last snapping of the restraints in Ludwig's mind. "Can't you see it?"

God.

He _could _see it.

He had seen it more than ever lately, something churning in Ludwig's eyes. Something strange underneath the calm and serenity. Something moving just underneath the surface of the water.

Ripples.

That look.

He could see it, maybe not as well as Ivan could, but he could see it all the same.

He did not want to admit it.

The concept was too goddamn horrifying.

"No, I can't," he finally lied, and Ivan sent him a look of mild annoyance.

"Ah," Ivan spat, dismissively, "You don't know anything, Toris. You wouldn't ever understand Ludwig's mind anyhow. Such things are beyond you. You can't even comprehend the purpose of the machine, let alone hope to figure out how the parts work."

The machine.

Ludwig was becoming Ivan's machine.

For what, he didn't know, and he didn't really want to imagine.

Maybe Ivan could see the potential within Ludwig to wreak havoc on the world, and maybe in some way Ivan hoped that with Ludwig by his side they could become gods.

Take over the word.

Ascend into legends.

Become stories that grandmothers told children to get them to behave so they wouldn't see eyes in the closet.

He _knew _it was risky, he knew he shouldn't, but he just couldn't help it.

He opened his mouth, and said, "I think you'll break it before you get it working like you want it to."

Before, such a comment would have earned him another broken bone or maybe something worse.

Now, Ivan stared at him for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

"Toris," Ivan said, and now he was rubbing his temple in agitation, "You're getting on my nerves. Go. I don't care _where _you go, just go somewhere. I'm _sick _of looking at you, I really am. Just go somewhere. Don't be late to that fucking meeting or I'll shoot you. Get out of here. Go on."

Once upon a time, Ivan might have grabbed his collar and smacked him across the face and then kick him out of the room quite literally, and now he just sat there, not even giving the effort to abuse him.

Somehow, this was worse.

It felt more dangerous now, as if Ivan had become so _detached _to anything but Ludwig that shooting any one of them wouldn't have been a big deal.

Maybe Ludwig wasn't protection after all—maybe he would be the crack in the dam.

Because now, Toris wasn't even worth the time to knock around, and that was scary as hell somehow.

How sad, how _pitiful_, that he almost wished Ivan would have grabbed his shoulder and shoved him out by force.

Ludwig.

All of Ivan's energy went to Ludwig now, to oiling that machine, to stoke the fire and try to wring every last drop of sanity from Ludwig's head. Toris could see the darkness as well as Ivan could, but Ivan could see past it and was excited by something else.

To Ivan, Ludwig had suddenly become everything, because Ivan was everything to Ludwig.

To Ivan, there was nothing on earth that compared to Ludwig because, as far as Ludwig was concerned, Ivan had absolute power over everything.

Buncha fuckin' psychos.

This entire household was full of psychos.

Ivan was insane. Ludwig was getting there fast. Irina was complacent with Ivan's insanity, so that made her crazy, too. Raivis adored Ivan and Ludwig, knowing full well what they did, and that made him crazier than Irina.

And himself?

Hell, he was the devil's right hand.

He knew everything he did was wrong, he knew it, and he still did it.

The others didn't seem aware of the consequences of their actions. Ivan thought he was always right, and so everyone else was in the wrong. Ludwig thought Ivan was always right, and so it was okay. Irina thought Ivan couldn't help it, and so it wasn't his fault. Raivis thought they were allowed to do such things, because the army said they could, and so it wasn't bad.

They lived in their own worlds, with their own rules.

They were crazy, sure, but Toris _knew _what he did was wrong. He knew that there was still very much a broader world with broader rules. He knew everything he did was very much illegal. Morally incomprehensible.

And he still did it.

What did that make him?

He was the worst of them all.

If they were sociopaths, then maybe _he _was the psychopath. They didn't really seem to have much of what could ever be considered a conscience. Maybe Ludwig had had one, not too long ago, but not anymore. Toris did have a conscience, but he just didn't listen to it when he didn't feel like it.

He was the worst.

So he just went to sleep, got ready in the morning, took the car, and went to Ivan's meeting, pretending like he was one of them, and did everything Ivan told him to do.

He always did, no matter how many people it hurt.

He was the craziest, perhaps.

At any point in time, on any given day, at any hour, he could have taken the car, started driving, and not stop until he was in the west. He could have left. He could have fled. He could have run away.

He didn't.

Because he _was _a coward—living here was easier. It was easier to have someone do everything for you and just have to do whatever they said in return. It was easier to break rules than it was to follow them. It was easier to hurt people than it was to be patient with them. It was easier to have someone hand him an identity rather than build his own.

Ivan's world was easier.

So he stayed.

And that made him the worst.

When he came back days later, in the hour before dawn, he shut the door, took off his coat, and walked back inside this house, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Nothing really was.

When he pulled off his boots, a step caught his attention, and he looked up to see Ludwig, walking out of the kitchen to see who was there.

Ludwig caught sight of him, still half-asleep, and smiled.

"Hi, Toris. Glad you're back. I missed you."

They weren't friends; Ivan said so.

All the same, if he couldn't truly be friends with Ludwig, then he could still try to be brothers, even if it had to be with a dangerous Ludwig.

Giving Ludwig up, even though it wasn't the same one, was too hard, so he settled for this one instead.

"Oh, yeah? You can come with me next time."

Hardly. Ivan would never allow that.

Still, Ludwig smiled at him, subdued and calm and friendly as he came out of sleep, and Toris could see that he was clenching a book to his chest.

"You're up early," he said, and Ludwig rolled his head around, cracking his neck as he kept smiling.

"Couldn't sleep."

Nothing out of the ordinary.

That hit Toris—that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, because Ludwig suddenly looked at _home_ in this place.

That hadn't been obvious before.

Ludwig looked like he belonged here now.

Standing there in the dim light, Ivan's shirt slung over his shoulders, hair sticking upright from its time on the pillow, eyes bleary and heavy, pale and sleepy, a serene smile on his face, stance passive and easy-going, and Toris realized that Ludwig looked like he had lived here all along.

Like he owned the place.

Like this had always been _his _home.

Like that had always been _his _bed.

Like Ivan's shirts had always been at _his _disposal.

Even in the darkness, Toris could see the pale blue bruise on the side of Ludwig's neck.

Ludwig lived here, now, and it was painfully obvious.

Agitation.

"What's this?" Toris suddenly asked, perhaps a bit harshly, as he reached out and snatched the book from Ludwig's hands.

If it had been Colonel Müller, he wouldn't have dared, and if it had been the Ivan-Ludwig, he would have gone straight back outside and sat in the car until _he_ was gone.

But now it was just Ludwig, and if he was offended by Toris wrenching the book from his hands, then he didn't say anything.

The placid smile stood strong.

Ludwig looked so sure of himself all the time nowadays.

So confident.

Ivan had stoked him, alright.

Not too much longer, and maybe that machine really would sputter to life.

Those horrible images crept into his head yet again, as Ludwig smiled at him easily, and he could only imagine Ivan lying there in the bed, hands behind his head, staring up at a Ludwig that was sitting on his chest, whispering God only knew what, and by the end of Ivan's little pep-talk, it was Ludwig who reached down, kissed Ivan on the lips, and pulled out a gun.

Hell, maybe they just sat upstairs and took turns pulling the trigger to see who was braver.

Ivan held Ludwig over the map and dragged his finger over countries, telling him that he could destroy any one of them at the twitch of his head, and Ludwig no doubt enjoyed the fact that the world was suddenly under his feet.

Maybe Ludwig had spent so much time giving that he decided it was time to start taking.

The wheels were grinding.

Just a few more modifications. A few more wires to rip out.

Toris looked down, suddenly, at the book in his hand, and felt a little disheartened.

A Russian dictionary. Figured.

Not Ludwig.

Not Ludwig at all.

Lyudovik.

"Well," Toris began, voice clipped and low as he stared at the book, "I see you're trying to learn Russian."

He flipped it open, for whatever reason, and kind of wished he hadn't.

Ludwig just stood there. Toris was glad he didn't say, 'Well, you wouldn't teach me, so I have to learn myself.'

He should have taken care of Ludwig before.

Too late now, and instead he found himself staring into these pages.

On the edges of the book, Ludwig had tried to scribble out sentences and words in Cyrillic, and the writing was pretty bad. Awful, actually. Who could ever get the hang of an entirely new alphabet right off? Ludwig did his best. And, like everything else, in the end, Ludwig would get it.

Just letters, practiced here and there.

After a few pages, the scribbles changed.

Private little notes that had been meant for no one. The inner workings of Ludwig's head, poured on paper. Helpful language notes mixed suddenly with random thoughts.

Unease.

_ 'D looks like weird A.' _

_ 'Home.'_

_ 'p = r'_

_ 'Memory.'_

'_Ludwig_', in clumsy Cyrillic.

A comparison of Ivan's name in both Latin and Cyrillic.

_ 'Home, home, home.'_

_ 'Together.'_

Toris was fully aware then that he shouldn't have been reading these, and yet he couldn't seem to stop himself. He couldn't close the damn book, and kept on flipping. With every page, with every flick of his thumb, the scribbled thoughts became somehow more depressing. More private. He felt suddenly as though he were intruding on something exceedingly personal.

Oh. Ludwig.

_ 'Learn how to say, 'I'm sorry.''_

_ 'Forever.'_

_ 'I can't remember anything. Why?'_

_ 'B = v.'_

The pages turned.

The writing became sloppier.

_ 'Who am I?'_

_ 'You promised.'_

_ 'Liar.'_

The letters were barely discernable now; just angry scratches on the paper.

At points, the pen had pierced the paper all the way through.

Rage, in written form.

_ 'Who am I?'_

_ 'I can't go back,' _in incorrect Russian.

_ 'Who am I?'_

_ 'Liar.'_

_ 'Who am I?'_

_ 'Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar.'_

An entire page full of that word.

And then, at the bottom of the very last page, there was a great black scribble, as though Ludwig had written something and had been so upset with how it looked that he had tried to get rid of it in a fit of embarrassment.

But Toris could still see the clumsy Cyrillic letters beneath the ink.

'_Ya tebya lyublyu_.'

I love you.

His head hurt.

Remorse, mingled with fear.

A horrible rush of panic seared his chest.

With a furrowed brow, he closed the book, feeling anxious for some reason, and held it out. Ludwig took it immediately, and Toris had very nearly put his hands in the air and started backing off as non-threateningly as possible.

It hit him harder than he thought it would.

The realization that Ludwig _scared _him.

He could have burst into tears then, had he still been capable of it.

Ludwig scared him.

They weren't friends.

This new Ludwig had little care for friendship, so absorbed in Ivan that maybe there just wasn't room for anyone else up in his head. Ludwig had forgotten Berlin. Ludwig had forgotten Gilbert.

There was only Ivan now.

_ Learn how to say, 'I'm sorry.'_

How he could keep from making Ivan angry.

How to make Ivan happy.

Only Ivan.

_ Who am I?_

It was hard to reconcile that frightening scribbling with the tranquil smile that Ludwig was still sending him, and, _God_, oh, if he would have just _tried _harder in the beginning, if he had cared more about Ludwig, maybe this wouldn't have happened.

He had let Ludwig down.

It was his fault.

Ludwig had been put under his care, and he had lost Ludwig to Ivan's sea.

Poor Ludwig.

Ivan and Ludwig should _never _have encountered each other.

They sat together at the kitchen table afterwards, the book set on the edge, and Toris just glanced at it from time to time, and could feel the creeping tide. And when Ludwig smiled at him and reached out with gentle hands to smooth down his messy hair, Toris jumped. He'd never jumped before at Ludwig.

He jumped.

Ludwig didn't seem to notice, and kept on smiling at Toris the whole while through his messy bangs.

_ Oh_. God.

Ludwig was still so _friendly_, and that was scary too, knowing that Ludwig was capable of so much more.

Not knowing when the wind would shift and when Ludwig's gentle hands would turn deadly.

Not knowing when Ludwig would sink under.

The smell of Ivan on Ludwig was unnerving, as Ivan's shirt hung loosely over his skin.

It wasn't fair.

Not fair.

Ludwig was gone.

That little shred of him, that powdered glass, just wasn't enough.

Just a little glimmer, in the midst of a vast ocean.

Not enough.

It was around that time, holding Ludwig's funeral in his head and composing a eulogy, that Toris realized that he had been so sidetracked by Ludwig these past months that he had been forgetting to do his damn job, and make sure that Gilbert was staying well within the boundaries of Berlin.


	24. Chapter 23

**A/N **: Sorry for the wait. In case you didn't see, I made a tumblr. Twi-go. (tumblr) .com. I think this is the last place for me to slap that up. If you do read my tumblr, you know that shit will be going down soon in this.

Thanks a bunch guys, as always. Next chapter should be up soon as well, and from there everything just goes batshit.

Happy late Halloween/Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/New Year, etc. :)

(still need to proofread this one. :))

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23<strong>

Seventy days.

It had been seventy days straight that his head had been lit up on fire.

He knew it was seventy days because he had been making a scratch in the back of the dictionary for every morning he woke up to a headache. Impossible to keep track of days otherwise, and when he woke up that morning, feeling that throbbing behind his eyes, he grabbed the dictionary dutifully from the end table and picked up the pen.

Another scratch.

Damn thing would be full soon.

Why he counted them, he couldn't say. Made him feel better, he supposed, to have a tangible sense of days and time, something he could look at and use as a guide to the sands, even by counting something as droll as headaches.

It felt like years, so to realize it had only been months was daunting at times.

Time lagged, but he had sped up, in a way.

Physically, most of the time he felt great. Stronger every day. Quicker. He felt at his prime.

It was only up in his head that he felt wobbly and vulnerable.

He set the book aside, buried his face in his hands, and glanced over at sleeping Ivan.

Did he have headaches, too? From the exceedingly content way he was sleeping, sprawled on his back and face turned on the pillow, it didn't appear so. Ivan was sound of mind; not insecure like he was. No need for his head to hurt. Ivan was immune to such things.

Sound of mind?

Something about that thought made him bow his head and smile.

Ivan. In bed, safe and sound.

Sound meant something different to everyone.

A long moment of letting his head hang, a second of scrunching his eyes shut and trying to force away the ache, and then he lifted his shoulders and turned his head towards Ivan.

His head was pounding, sure, but that didn't stop him from leaning over and kissing Ivan until he woke up.

Irritating a soundly-sleeping Ivan had somehow became a favorite pastime of his. Dangerous for most, but not for him.

Ivan wouldn't hurt him. Not him.

A sigh, as Ivan came into consciousness.

His hand rested on Ivan's neck, and soon he was staring into sleepy eyes.

"Morning."

A gruff mutter.

Ivan eyed him, blearily, and plopped his head back down on the pillow to make it clear he had no intention of hauling himself out of bed early, no matter how persistently Ludwig ran a hand up and down his neck.

Eventually, Ivan flipped over, pulled the blanket over his head, and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

Ludwig gave up, and let him sleep.

He pulled himself to his feet, leaving the comfort of the bed behind.

His bed.

Seventy days.

He trudged downstairs, opened the cabinet in the kitchen, put back a handful of aspirin, and when he turned around, Toris was behind him.

Always was these days, it seemed.

He lifted up his chin in silent acknowledgment, managed something that felt like a smile but might have looked more like a sneer, and Toris took a seat at the table.

"What are you doing today, Ludwig?"

Toris' voice seemed as odd as his face did lately. Strained, in a way. Thin. As if he put as much effort into how he spoke as he did with how he looked. Picking tones and choosing words.

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, and joined Toris at the table.

Ludwig.

That was Toris' most useful aspect, perhaps, in his ability to repeat that name like a parrot and in the process keep a bit of the mist at bay. Funny, though—Toris had seemed considerably more important in days gone by.

Passing ghosts.

It took him a while to address Toris further.

Sometimes in the mornings, when he woke up, it felt like his brain was cranking up rather than coming to.

Mechanical.

He stared at Toris without really meaning to.

"What are _you _doing today?"

Toris just stared back at him. At least until he started squirming and averted his eyes.

Finally, an odd, "Whatever you're doing, Ludwig."

Ludwig felt his nose crinkling at the corner, and turned quickly away. His plans, set or no, hadn't ever really intended to include Toris, whether Toris meant to come along or not.

His interest in Toris seemed to wane every day.

Not really Toris' fault, he supposed.

Toris opened his mouth as if to say more, but was denied the opportunity by heavy footsteps on the stairs. When Ivan finally came downstairs and showed his face, Toris was forgotten like smoke, and Ludwig found himself focused and alert. Toris was only a shadow; Ivan was the sun. When Ivan was in his sight, everything else disappeared.

Toris tried hard these days to get his attention, for whatever reason, and not too long ago that would have made him happy. Now? His enthusiasm wasn't exactly through the roof.

In the end, Toris wasn't who his world revolved around.

Brother.

Yeah.

It had occurred to him that although Toris was still very much his brother, the sentiment had changed just a little bit. Before, when he had been settling in, Toris had felt like an older brother, one that he could look up to and admire and be very much in love with, always able to turn to and seek advice from, always there when Ludwig needed him.

Then, Toris had felt like a damn twin. His equal. His other half. The only person out here who understood anything about him. Someone to trust. Someone who could feel what he felt.

Now, Toris was more like a little brother. Ludwig was obligated to love him, always would be he supposed, but at times he found himself annoyed by Toris. Irritated and wanting to be rid of him as one wanted to get rid of a blabbering child.

Toris left. Ludwig didn't notice until he came back that he had been gone in the first place. Toris said, 'Hi'. Ludwig heard himself say, 'I missed you', because that was what he had always said. He meant to mean it, but some part of him didn't really care too much where Toris was at any given time. Coulda been days or months or minutes that Toris was gone; he didn't really sense the difference anymore.

Toris was just Toris. Nothing special. Around Toris, everything was quite in order. Dull.

Talk about banality.

Maybe not too fair, because who could ever really compete with Ivan in a competition of being interesting?

So here they sat.

Ivan passed through the kitchen long enough to brush the top of Ludwig's head with an errant hand, and was gone.

Toris exhaled, and cast his eyes down to the book in Ludwig's hand. For the first time, he offered, "You need some help with that, Ludwig? I know it's hard to learn."

Ludwig wasn't really sure what the sentiment he felt then was, but it wasn't love.

"No," he finally said, "I don't. I'm doing fine on my own."

He wasn't, not really, but he needed nothing from Toris.

Not anymore.

Toris sat there for a while, looking a little hurt, and then he met Ludwig's gaze with another one of those odd looks.

A murmur.

"Feeling Russian already, Ludwig?"

A twinge of pride in his chest, for whatever reason, and he lifted up his chin. Ivan's words from years ago, running through his head.

_'Maybe you were meant to be born Russian.'_

So he just smiled, and said, "Maybe I was meant to be."

Toris' brow crinkled a little, and so did his nose and lip. A look of distaste. Something sour on his tongue. And then Toris stood up and backed towards the door, and left, after spitting out a quick, "Still speaking German, though, aren't you? You'll never be Russian. You were born in Berlin."

_That word._

Couldn't say _that word_.

Panic.

Slamming doors.

Closets.

Toris was gone by the time the shock of hearing_ that word_ wore off, so Ludwig heard himself whisper to no one, "I was born _here_."

Maybe he hadn't entered the world here, not here, but he had been born here. That made him Russian, didn't it? Even if he couldn't speak it. Wherever he had been birthed, whomever by, didn't matter. Ivan had made him here. He was from here. This was his house, too. This was his town. Irina was his sister.

He lived here.

Always had.

A sudden heaviness, as hands fell down on his shoulders.

He jumped, even though he knew who it was. No need to panic, not under Ivan's hands, but Toris' careless use of _that word _had put him on edge.

Ivan moved silently, as he always did, and could sneak up on a ghost. He had come back, and not a moment too soon.

A nose burrowed in his hair.

"You should sleep later. I don't like getting up so early."

Ludwig found his heart was still hammering too fast to really respond, and he let Ivan nuzzle his hair without saying a word.

So relieved, though, that Ivan hadn't heard _that word._

What a calamity it would have brought.

"Feel like learning again?" Ivan asked, and Ludwig quickly nodded.

Anything to take his mind off _that word_, and when Ivan grabbed his hand and pulled him upright, Ludwig followed along dutifully. He'd rather be knocked around by Ivan's huge fists than hear that fuckin' whispering.

Didn't take long before he got his wish.

Ivan didn't like waking up early, but seemed to come around exceedingly swiftly. No grogginess or lethargy once he positioned Ludwig in that now-familiar stance of systema and started going.

Ludwig had been getting better at it, but felt as if he had slowed down today.

Toris' fault. Always was, it seemed.

Shaking him up like that.

From Ivan's first move, Ludwig could sense that he wouldn't be able to keep up this time.

Ivan was too damn fast. Couldn't ever hit him, and if an opportunity ever did present itself, in a rare moment, he failed to take it because he choked. Uncertainty and apprehension. Ivan wanted him to try and hit him, all right, but Ludwig wasn't so certain that he was actually allowed to.

This time, he couldn't even come close.

"Try harder!"

_That word._

He tried to shake it off, push Toris' audacity aside, and find his balance.

Tried, at least.

He gave it everything he had, always did, but still he fell under Ivan's strength.

A sharp pain in his nose.

"Faster!" Ivan chided, and Ludwig had only a second to get his brain working again before he figured out that ducking Ivan's fist felt a hell of a lot better than getting smacked by it.

His brain and body didn't cooperate, and he fell shortly after. On the hard floor, he raised up a hand to his bleeding nose, and stared up at the ceiling.

No map on this one.

No way to look back there.

"I think you broke my nose," he heard himself utter, and Ivan looked down at him with little concern.

"You usually dodge that one."

Broken noses were nothing around here.

Ivan lowered himself to the floor and put himself atop Ludwig, though not out of interest in his broken nose, and lowered his head enough to start whispering.

Ludwig found the pain already alleviating.

Uncertainty vanished.

Toris' words meant nothing.

"You know," Ivan breathed in his ear then, as Ludwig took handfuls of his hair, "I think you look nice like that."

Pride.

Let his nose be broken, then, if Ivan liked the way it looked. Once upon a time, Ivan had been irritated at a cut to his face, yet seemed hardly bereft now at something far more noticeable.

Ivan loved him.

"Don't worry. You'll get better. Already are. Like a soldier now!"

Ludwig looked up at Ivan, and asked, "Aren't I?"

Colonel.

Ivan's smile was bright. Maybe a little condescending in a way.

"Of course."

A short pause, as Ivan looked him over, and then the smile became a real one.

Excitement.

"I can't wait to take you back out again," was the enthusiastic croon. "We'll throw another ball, how about that? You can go back there and show them all what you've learned. I want them to see how nice you look in the uniform now. Not that you didn't look good before, you know! You just wear it better now, because you walk like me."

Like me.

_ —goddammit, Lutz, I wish you could be more like _me_, it would make everything easier for the both of us—_

He had only ever wanted to be himself and have people be proud of him for it, but being like Ivan was worth the loss of his own personality.

God.

Of the many things that flashed in his mind, one thing stood out above the others.

It was with eagerness that was perhaps inappropriate that he lifted his head off the floor, bumped his forehead into Ivan's, and said, "I want to shoot that man!"

Didn't need to elaborate on who. Ivan knew. He'd only gotten into a confrontation with one man in his time here. Looking back on it, shooting the son of a bitch probably would have felt a hell of a lot better than beating him.

Show him a real _fashisty_.

Ivan stared down at him, that smile still on his face, and it seemed somehow that the pain in his nose dulled down even more in his excitement to hurt someone again.

Someone who had well deserved it, at least.

"Can we?" he asked, eagerly. "Call another one. I want to shoot him."

"If you want to shoot him that badly," Ivan said, as he lowered his head down to Ludwig's neck, "then we'll just go to his house and I can save a lot of money. How about that?"

Disappointment.

Yeah, they could do that, but that took away the audience. He had a lot of mouths to shut. They hadn't laughed aloud at him, but the sneers and the high brows lingered in his head still.

He hadn't fit in then.

He liked to think (as Ivan had so often told him) that he owned them now. They couldn't talk back to him now because he was above them.

Superior.

Somewhere during his thoughts, Ivan had started ripping off his clothes in one of those bouts of aggression, and when Ivan flipped him over, clenching a fistful of his hair and shoving his broken nose into the floor, he clamped his jaw shut and took everything Ivan doled out without crying.

Superior to everyone else.

Not Ivan.

The only being on earth that commanded him anymore.

A general was, after all, just God to a soldier.

Stepping into the kitchen, shortly after, gathered Irina's immediate attention.

Before Ludwig could even move, she had swooped over and was grabbing his face to yank him forward.

"What happened?" she asked, as her fingers brushed his nose gently.

"Nothin'." His voice was thick and nasally as she pinched his nose shut and forced his head back. "It's not that bad."

Wasn't even bleedin' anymore.

She didn't seem to care much, and behind her, Toris muttered something incoherent.

"Look at you!" Irina griped, as she lowered her eyes and saw bruises here and there. "You're all banged up! What have you been doing?"

Ludwig was fairly certain that he heard Toris snip, gruffly, "Ivan."

His hand twitched down suddenly, only to stop short when he realized there was nothing in his belt.

...yeah, he would let that one go, since Irina still had his face in her hands. Sometimes, though, Ludwig realized that Toris got on his damn nerves. Couldn't remember the last time a simple sentence could get him so riled up.

Seventy days.

He couldn't remember, either, when he had stopped thinking about things before he acted. That jerk of his hand; he hadn't planned that. That had been Ivan's programming. His pride didn't protest against this involuntary rewiring anymore, so neither did he.

Easier to do what Ivan had taught him to and just go from there.

Toris stared at him the whole time that Irina poked fingers in his nose, and when she pulled back and clicked her tongue in annoyance, saying, "Ooh! I'm gonna break _his _nose!" Toris just shook his head and turned his eyes back down to his book.

Ludwig couldn't really figure out what Toris' look was supposed to convey.

Maybe Toris was as annoyed with him as he was with Toris. Sometimes, it seemed they stood on opposite sides of a river, and Toris could hardly be bothered to cross as much as he was.

Sure did clear his face though when Ivan stepped into the room.

Irina was the one who spoke first and started berating Ivan in Russian, but her threat was empty enough, because Ivan made it past her and outside without incurring any injury.

Ludwig went to follow, but stopped short at the door when he saw Ivan heading down to the trees.

Uncertainty held him still, as it had before, and he went to the window instead.

Irina wandered off, muttering under her breath and shaking her head.

Ludwig stood there, watching from afar and feeling so lonely suddenly, without Ivan at his side, and felt the crinkling of his brow.

The cat had come out and was rubbing at his heels.

Without really thinking about it, he held the blind up with one finger and asked, quickly, "Think it would be alright if I went after him?"

Toris looked at him, a little irritably, and finally just shook his head.

"Who knows? Go outside if you want! Why're ya askin' me?"

Ludwig straightened his back, tilted his head, and felt himself give a quick 'hm'.

"Actually," he said, "That's a good question."

It _was_—why the hell was he asking Toris for anything, anyway?

With that, he lifted his chin, set his shoulders, and headed for the door. He thought he saw a little twinge of hurt or regret there in Toris' eyes, but too damn bad.

Shouldn't have been an ass.

That was the last time he asked Toris for anything. Ivan had told him, anyway, that he was above Toris, so by all rights Toris should have been asking him for things, not the other way around.

Toris was just Toris.

Nothing more.

As he went towards the door, he heard Toris mutter, under his breath, "See ya later, colonel."

Smartass.

He'd have to put Toris in line soon, before Ivan felt it necessary to do so.

Toris had gotten mouthier than usual lately.

Or maybe he was as mouthy as he had always been, and Ludwig just found himself less patient. Could be. Things irritated him quickly now. Little things, however insignificant, had a way of setting him off if they weren't quite like he wanted them to be.

One day, in one way or another, Toris would be gone, and it wouldn't set him back.

He liked Raivis, but he wouldn't cry if he was gone. He adored Irina, but her absence would not have stopped the world. And he _loved _Toris, in some way still, but he could live without him.

As long as Ivan was there.

He struggled through the snow, and found Ivan back at the forest's edge, peering into the tall pines as he did on occasions. Ludwig started bounding over to him, stopped still mid-trot, and turned his eyes instead to the depths of the woods.

No movement from within.

No tigers this time, at least not ones that _he_ could see. Ivan saw more than he did.

In the distance, birds chirped.

Spring was approaching, slowly but surely.

Ludwig hadn't uttered a word, but Ivan suddenly held out an arm into the air, as if waiting for Ludwig to come close enough to put it around his shoulders. He didn't keep Ivan waiting, and slunk in beneath his hand.

A long silence, as Ivan thought about who knew what, and Ludwig thought about Ivan.

Always was.

Trees swayed.

Creaking and snapping faintly from within the woods.

A great explosion in the distance shattered the silence, and Ludwig turned his head, out to the vast forests.

"What was that?" he asked, perhaps a bit anxiously, and Ivan just sent him a look of patience.

"The river. The ice broke just now. Happens, this time of year. Want to go see it?"

His automatic response was, "Of course," barely audible as his chest clenched up with adoration. Ivan thought he was ready to go in the forest. A compliment, greater than any other.

Ivan took his hand, led him forward, and escorted him past the first great tree.

Terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

They walked for what felt like a hour or so, but might have been far less, until the sound of rushing water became audible. Beyond it, a strange, ominous grinding, as if something ahead was caught in a massive battle.

Without really noticing, he clenched Ivan's hand like a little kid, and tensed up his shoulders.

Ivan snorted, softly, and kept up his pace.

The river came into sight from beneath a hill, and the bank was covered with melting snow and mud, twigs and pine needles.

He fell still upon the incline, and looked on with wonder.

The scent of clean water and earth.

The strange sounds of before were suddenly obvious; in the midst of the vast river were giant ice floes, grinding against each other in the middle of the waterway, struggling against the ice that had not yet broken and fighting for room down the path.

Ivan's breath was suddenly against his ear.

"The deer have to cross, sometimes. If they don't make it before the ice starts moving, then they have to walk across it like this. Try to get over before the ice goes under."

Ludwig shuddered.

He couldn't imagine anything being brave enough to actually attempt to cross those floes, not even the ones that seemed to be drifting so slowly they hardly appeared to be moving. One wrong step, one shift, and it might turn, it might get shoved under a bigger chunk of ice, it might break apart right beneath a foot.

Disaster.

A horrible way to die, either drowning in freezing water or getting crushed by ice.

A warm hand on his back suddenly nudged him forward.

He looked over his shoulder to see Ivan right behind him, and he didn't even have time to open his mouth before Ivan nudged him again and whispered, "Go on! Take a look. It's alright."

Actually, he was quite content where he was, but, like in every thing else, impressing Ivan took precedent over any sense of personal safety.

Ivan's commands were meant to be obeyed, whatever harm came to him in the process.

So he edged over.

Slowly.

He took a step forward, and then another, daring himself to get close to the river, and even though he stood safely on the bank, even though the water was clear of ice a few feet before him, it was still a rather daunting moment.

He was absolutely content making it this far.

Didn't take him long to glance back at Ivan, though, just to make sure he wasn't expected to prove his bravery by trying to jump across the ice.

He wasn't sure he'd have the heart for that, and it sounded like something Ivan might have very well asked of him.

Ivan didn't ask him to jump, as it turned out, but he did come out with something else just as frightening.

"How's the water?" Ivan asked, and Ludwig felt his brow crinkling.

Aw, man.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and went farther onto the bank.

Water sloshed over his boots.

Probably cold as fuck, that's how the damn water was, so why Ivan was even asking he couldn't say. Ivan did what he wanted, with no rhyme or reason required.

Ludwig leaned forward, peering down at the white water, and thought he saw movement in the reflection beneath him.

Screeching beyond, as ice banged and scraped together.

He stared at himself in the water, and caught a glimpse of something behind him.

No time to ponder it, though, as something hit the back of his neck suddenly, dazing him and throwing him off. He lost his balance, tottered down onto a knee, hands falling into the freezing water up to his just below his elbows, and his nose nearly dipped in.

Confusion.

His head ached.

Time slowed down in that instant, as it did in those awful, dragging moments before an attack crept up.

The blurry, wavering reflection beneath him was oddly fascinating, and he just stared down at it for a dumb moment, too stunned to move, breathing through his mouth and squinting his eyes, and then somehow, he couldn't say how, his head was suddenly under the water.

He tried to push up, and realized he couldn't.

Something held him down.

Probably those fingers clenched in his hair.

It was either the shock of the blow or the freezing water that kept him subdued then, for no matter how many times he tried to get himself up, he couldn't seem to get his arms underneath him enough to get enough traction. Not enough strength to push up when he did get into a good position.

Couldn't really move at all.

A long, painful minute of drifting, and then something in his head woke up and he found the strength to start thrashing.

Struggling for air.

Fighting for life.

Couldn't get to it. No matter how hard he fought, he couldn't get his head above the surface. The iron hand above him gave him nothing.

His broken nose, sore earlier from a punch, became sore now from inhaling ice water as his aching lungs gave in to the natural urge to suck in air and got river instead.

His short fight died down then, as the water froze him up from the inside out and slowed him down.

The daze set in again, and reality became something far more surreal.

Clear water around him started flashing.

White.

Grey.

Black.

A simple array of colors, but exceedingly fascinating ones when they faded into each other and were strewn with dots and stars.

Dancing lights.

Lightheadedness.

Dizziness.

The river grew quieter; comforting, in a way. The water didn't feel as cold.

Calm.

Somewhere in the midst of the increasing tranquility, somewhere beyond the grey, he thought he herd whispering. Shadows. Movement. Warm hands.

The whispering grew ever louder as the grey faded steadily into black.

He felt himself moving, although he was not responsible for it. Hardness beneath him.

Fog.

Somewhere back there, in that grey, in the mist, someone had promised him forever.

Together.

Had it happened that way?

He couldn't find that voice again, not the one that he had heard before.

New whisperings. The old ones had gone.

A sharp pressure on his chest, a pain in his ribs, and with a great lurch of air and pain, the bright light of his subconscious became the bright light of the white sky and the clouds, and someone was hovering above him.

A burst of water escaped his chest, and the veil of fog was lifted.

White.

He came back into the world.

The whispering stopped.

When his vision cleared and the bright light dulled, he saw Ivan's face. A stupid thought crossed his mind : 'Talk about dying and going to heaven.'

Ivan had pulled him just towards the bank of the river, placing him in shallow water, and sat over him now with knees on either side of him.

Warm hands on the back of his neck.

Aching.

He started coughing, suddenly, as breathing came back into its rhythm and tried to clear the last of the water from his lungs. Ivan lifted his head, ran thumbs over his cheeks, and started whispering again.

It had been Ivan he had heard, in that mist.

His chest hurt as much as his head did now, it seemed, but when Ivan smiled down at him, he could feel himself smiling back.

The fuckin' water was freezing again. Not calm like before. The current had sped back up, the noise had come back, and the rushing water felt heavy in his ears.

His mind was hardly functional at the moment, if it was ever truly 'functional' anymore, and yet still, as Ivan pinned him in those few inches of water and held his head above with strong hands, he was pretty sure he had an idea of what had happened.

Ivan had knocked him forward, shoved him under the surface and held him there until he stopped moving, and then resuscitated him at the last minute.

Ivan's gloves were soaking wet.

Somehow, it was something astoundingly beautiful to him.

No one else could have understood it.

Only Ivan could shove him to the brink of death and then pull him back. Ivan could bring him back to life whenever he felt so inclined. Ivan could change even death when he wanted to.

Who else could do that?

Beautiful.

Ivan leaned down then, pulling his heavy head up firmly, and kissed him there in the icy river. Ludwig would have gladly sat there all day and let Ivan shove his tongue down his throat if he didn't have to break away to cough more water from his lungs.

The fire in his chest dulled into an ache.

Breathing hurt.

Ivan shifted above him, as the coughing fit died down steadily, and left gasping in its wake.

Couldn't seem to get enough air.

One of Ivan's great hands ran over his face as the other propped his head up, and warmth pressed against his chest. A nose in his hair. A whisper.

"I love you. I swear, I won't ever let anything happen to you. I'll always be there to protect you."

His arms felt like they were made of lead, but he managed to lift them up somehow and embrace Ivan around the back of the neck.

Foreheads butted together, noses bumped, he gasped for air and Ivan kissed him between every breath, cold water dripped from his hair and Ivan's gloves back down into the river, and oh, fucking Christ, he loved this man so much, _so _much, he would have jumped back in the river if Ivan had asked him to, he would have drowned himself if it made Ivan happy.

Fingers tangled in his wet hair.

A final, fervent kiss, and another whisper.

"I love you."

He tried to answer, but the tickle of water in his throat kept him still.

So he just smiled instead.

Sloshing of the river around them, as Ivan suddenly braced his knees and pulled Ludwig back upright. He wasn't light, not in any sense, and yet Ivan still pulled him up like a handbag and threw his arm over a broad shoulder, carting him along quite easily.

As they staggered back up onto the bank, Ludwig finally gathered the strength to rasp, "Did I die?"

Ivan's lips were up against his ear.

"No. You don't die until I say you can."

Ludwig let himself be dragged along, gaze bleary and temples burning, and he leaned his head against Ivan's chest, and could feel the smile on his face.

He'd do anything.

This man was everything.

Something cold and hard was pressed into his hand, and when he looked down, he saw Ivan's gun within his palm.

Ivan's gun.

"It's yours now," was Ivan's whisper, and Ludwig felt himself clenching it even against the listlessness.

His.

Oh. God help anyone who tried to come in between them. He'd die before he ever let himself be parted from Ivan. Ivan had made him someone. Being no one was a degradation he wouldn't ever stoop to again.

The price was small. This pain in his chest was nothing, nothing in comparison to all Ivan had given him.

Ivan _liked_ to hurt him, maybe not always physically, not always in the same way, and maybe Ivan even did it as a way of saying 'I love you', but Ivan enjoyed hurting him. Ivan was a liar. Crazy. He knew that.

Didn't care.

When it came down to it, he liked it when Ivan hurt him. The only times he had ever even felt alive.

Being in love was as exhilarating and breathless as those times when he lost his mind.

_That place_ was gone.

The gun was his.

Ivan was his.

That promise of forever might have been made at first by someone else, but it was meant now for Ivan.

* * *

><p>Waiting.<p>

Ludwig was coughing up water when he got home, and if Toris hadn't been so mad and so fuckin' _sick_, he might have slapped Ludwig on the back of the head and berated him for being such an idiot as to go out with Ivan in the first place.

Ivan was just as wet, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.

Shouldn't have let Ludwig go, just like with Moscow. His pride always got in the way. One of his many faults, probably his worst.

Pride. Sometimes, Toris could only stop and look upon himself and wonder if it had ever really been pride so much as resentment. Resentment towards Ivan, who had found something that was so important to him. Resentment for Ludwig, who had ascended into something worthwhile while he still cowered in shadows.

Resentment for himself, that he was so _pathetic_ that earning Ivan's attention actually meant something.

Too late, now.

Ludwig couldn't even stand up, he was shivering so bad. The dumb son of a bitch was gonna get pneumonia again, and this time Toris wasn't going to sit there and feed him pills.

Ludwig thought he was Russian now, but still couldn't figure out how to survive here.

Yup. It was resentment, alright.

He couldn't worry about Ludwig now, and didn't really want to. Instead, when Ludwig was sat down in a chair, trembling and soaking wet, Toris just cast him a glance from the doorframe, and then turned his eyes back to the phone.

Waiting. Too much waiting.

The phone still wasn't ringing.

He'd looked all over Berlin. He'd scoured that entire fuckin' city, searching for a man who was essentially a ghost, and the only conclusion he could come to was that Gilbert wasn't in Berlin anymore.

Gone, like smoke.

The men he had sent frantically over the wall kept coming up with nothing.

The trail was cold.

Ludwig's flat was short a person. The Austrian ambassador was where he always was, and his wife was still. Ludwig's roommate was in the same spot. None of them shifted.

Gilbert wasn't with any of them.

The only one that might have known anything was impenetrable Edelstein.

Out here, Ivan ruled. Back in the real world, an ambassador was far too high an official to even think of touching, not for people like them, so Toris could only watch from afar and see what he did. Who he called. Where he went.

None of it led to Gilbert.

The only thing his men had to say about Edelstein were gripings along the lines of, 'This guy is too boring! I swear, he always looks like someone just shot his fuckin' mother.'

Edelstein's misery wasn't what Toris was interested in.

Wished he could have beat something out of him, but that was a no-go. Harm to Edelstein or his wife would be too risky, even to _them_, so Toris looked elsewhere.

And every day that passed with nothing, his stress levels started creeping towards the ceiling.

Every time Ivan came forward, Toris jumped, because it was only a matter of time before Ivan found out or just asked, to check in, 'Is he staying put?'

Ivan would know if he lied.

It was six days after Ludwig came home soaking wet, six miserable days, that the phone finally rang.

Toris skidded towards it more than he ran, and he was grateful, more than anything, that there were so many rooms in this house and that Ivan was constantly occupied by Ludwig. He grateful that the phone in Ivan's office had its own private number. He was grateful that Ivan wouldn't pick up the phone offhandedly and hear Toris whispering.

The death of him, surely.

He picked up the phone in a second, keeping his voice a low hiss as he asked, fervently, "Did you find him yet?"

The answer he wanted was not the answer he received.

_ "Not yet. I checked all the trains out on the Trans-Siberian like ya wanted. Doesn't look like he's on any of 'em. Last I can find he was in Brno, asking around the train station. I think a guy here knows where he went—"_

"So _shoot _him!" was Toris' immediate cry. "What the hell am I paying you for? Either he went to Budapest or he went straight into Moscow, so find out! I'm already too far behind him as it is. Take whoever it is out back, get him to talk and then fuckin' shoot him! Hurry up! Call me again when you beat it out of him."

He slammed down the phone, lashed out to kick the leg of the table, and spent the rest of the night stalking around the halls in circles.

Above, he could hear Ivan's silky crooning. Whispering, in Ludwig's low rumble. Those new lovebirds, chattering away to each other with their own private language, even if it was only insanity.

Ludwig's deep voice called out to more than just Ivan.

Gilbert's dog whistle.

The phone rang again two days later.

_ "Get this! He's not alone. Looks like he made a friend. Got smuggled in through Kiev. Bad news for you, man. He's in Moscow. Can't find him yet, but I got some info on his buddy. I got a picture. I'll send it to you."_

Toris stood by the fax machine, and waited.

His head was killing him.

Gilbert had made it to Moscow without kicking the bucket. Yeah, _that _figured.

The man kept on talking.

_ "We've been checkin' every shitty little motel in the city. It's gonna take forever to find him here, you know. Ever try to find an ant in this place?"_

"Just do it," Toris snipped, as he ran his hand restlessly through his hair. "You whine too much. How the hell you think _I _feel? You're not the one that'll get it if he gets any farther. I'd have you burn the whole city down if I could get away with it. I don't care _how _you get him, just get him. Both of them. Soon I'm just gonna have you shoot anyone who even looks like 'em. How hard can he be to find? You ever seen anyone else that looks like that? He's gotta be strung out enough, and then that fuckin' hair and pale as he is."

A grumbled, _"You ever been to Moscow? Everyone looks like _that_."_

"Find him."

_ "Yeah, sure."_

A click. Dial tone.

The giant machine began to whir soon after, and the paper started printing. The first thing Toris saw, poking out, was a name. A name he knew well. A photo came soon after, faxed in from the outside world. Toris was pretty sure then that he wished _he _had someone under him whose arm he could break.

That face.

Eduard.

Eduard! Ah, that little fucker! Gone but not forgotten. What were the chances? What were the chances of those two coming across each other? One in a million? More? Fate must have really abandoned him, somewhere along the line. Toris was certain he had popped a vein somewhere in his anger, and he was quick to crumple the paper up and toss it in the trash. Couldn't even fathom it.

Eduard.

Anger? No. This was rage. Fury. Wrath. Whatever the hell it could possibly be called.

This made everything so much more difficult. A dumb Gilbert fumbling around blindly in Moscow had suddenly turned into a dumb Gilbert knowing exactly where they were and having a straight line set before him. Not an easy line, but a straight one all the same.

With Eduard, Gilbert could actually make it here.

Oh, God—when Ivan found out, he was gonna kill him. Kill him. It would be him that Ivan was drowning in the fuckin' river.

Every day after that seemed to come far too quickly, as he struggled to keep calm and composed around Ivan even as his mind whirred away. Ivan and Ludwig passed by here and there, and Toris waited and plotted. He hung over his map every free minute and tried to figure out where Eduard would lead Gilbert, while Ivan and Ludwig hung over their own. He sat in corners with pen in mouth and tried to pretend he was Eduard. Get into his head and think like him.

Eduard. Still couldn't believe it.

Had to be going through Lesosibirsk, knowin' him. That was where he had gotten away. The closest location Eduard was familiar enough with. Too far away, though. They couldn't have made it there yet. Not in the snow. Not without the train.

So, where were they?

Between Moscow and Lesosibirsk. An entire fuckin' country, and no small one at that.

Sometimes, Toris just wanted to bang his head on the desk until he knocked himself out.

Shouldn't'a let it get this far. Why hadn't he paid attention to Gilbert like he was supposed to? He could hear Ivan's voice already :

_'You only had one job! One fuckin' job, and ya couldn't do it!'_

The thing he would hear after that would probably be a bang.

Voices from the hall interrupted his frantic thoughts and made him look up.

A slam.

Outside the door, he could hear a strange, strangled gasping. A loud thunk, as someone collapsed against the wall.

He crept forward, clicked the door open, and stuck his head out.

Ludwig, having another panic attack.

Whispering.

Ludwig was slouched against the wall, sitting on the floor, white as a sheet and cold-sweating, and Toris could see how hard it was for him to breathe.

Still, though, he was smiling, and Toris knew why.

Ivan was kneeling in front of him, running one great hand through Ludwig's hair and gripping his neck carefully with the other. Ivan had set the attack off, no doubt, and now it was Ivan who sought to pull Ludwig through it. Must have scared the hell out of Ludwig, one way or another.

Probably slammed the door just to see what would happen.

Ivan had been upset enough by the first instance, but now that he had seen Ludwig come out of one relatively unscathed, he might have enjoyed causing them just so he could be the one to say that he had kept watch over Ludwig during.

Toris found his damn imagination running wild again, trying to conjure up what Ivan whispered to Ludwig in the middle of a panic attack and again afterwards.

_'You're so pitiful, aren't you? Can't even breathe without me to help you do it!'_

Something Ivan would say. Something this new Ludwig would believe.

Unpleasant.

Long, uncomfortable minutes, for both Ludwig and himself. On the stone floor, Ludwig's hands trembled. Wheezing. Odd gulps and hisses. When Ludwig's chest unclenched and he could breathe again, in what felt like hours later, the first thing he gasped was a fervent, breathless, "I love you."

Ivan beamed. Toris shuddered.

Even now, even in this dry hallway, Ivan still had Ludwig's head beneath the water.

Horror.

If something put a wrench into the gears of that machine, Ivan would kill him. If Gilbert somehow arrived here, and if Ludwig found himself again and went with his brother, Ivan would kill them all. Ivan would burn this entire household down to the ground before he let Ludwig go.

All of them, right down to the fuckin' cat.

The next day, when Ludwig walked down the hallway, battered and bruised, Ivan walked beside of him.

Toris saw right off—Ivan's cheek was cut.

In his belt, Ludwig always carried a gun.

Ivan's gun.

That little trickle of blood down the side of Ivan's face, that gleam of metallic light at Ludwig's waist, focused Toris' attention on Gilbert all the more fervently.

He couldn't worry about Ludwig anymore, because Ludwig could survive Ivan. Ludwig matched Ivan.

Ivan had wrought this Ludwig, and had done it damn well.

Ludwig could outlast Ivan.

They couldn't.

* * *

><p>They had left Moscow behind two weeks ago.<p>

They wandered now on the outskirts, in little towns so small they probably didn't even have names, gathering their bearings as Eduard studied a map nightly with pen in teeth and fingers tapping.

The going was slow. Difficult.

Not because of where they were.

Eduard was stealthy to the point of being insane.

Gilbert had tried to open the curtains once, only to have his hand slapped away by an angry Eduard. Couldn't go out once they checked in. Couldn't leave in the mornings without wearing heavy, hooded coats. Eduard stripped the license plate off of the car and bribed people in the street for an exchange every three days. They changed motels every night, whether they left the city or not. Eduard looked over his shoulder every few seconds whenever they walked, and every time he sped up Gilbert could swear that his heart was gonna give out from the adrenaline and fright that came from thinking they were being followed. While driving, Eduard always checked the rear-view mirror and never did anything reckless so as not to attract the attention of the police. If they had to sleep in the car, Eduard locked the doors and forced Gilbert to huddle down on the floor of the backseat.

Just in case.

Eduard had looked at him one morning, and muttered, "When we're in Lesosibirsk, we're gonna dye your hair. You stand out too much."

Gilbert did whatever Eduard told him to do, feeling the whole while that Eduard's cautiousness was more for his own sense of security than it was an actual help.

He didn't know what Eduard was so goddamn scared of, not exactly, and was happy to keep it that way.

Made going forward easier.

Gilbert waited, those weeks, and watched as Eduard carried on without acting upon his earlier intent to find help. Sometimes, Gilbert couldn't help but wonder if maybe Eduard was as all-talk as he was, because for all of his tactics, Eduard never once found the courage on his own to grab the phone and call that woman.

Gilbert had to force him.

This way of living now was making him crazy.

Finally, he lost his patience one night, stuck in another shitty motel, and asked, "Are you ever gonna call that broad? You talked about it enough but you haven't done it yet. You said she'd help us. Why haven't you called her yet?"

Eduard looked at him for a while, pen tapping away, and it was with obvious reluctance that he scooted over to the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. He held it still though, and made no move to act on anything else.

Irritable as he was, Gilbert found himself griping seconds later.

"Well?" Gilbert snapped, as Eduard just sat there with the phone in his hand. "You gonna call or not? If you're scared, just tell me the numbers. I'll do it."

Eduard stared at the floor for long after Gilbert had shouted at him, finally took a deep breath, and started dialing. Gilbert was glad, because if he had actually been tasked with it, his fingers might have shaken so badly that he would have fumbled every number Eduard tossed at him.

One day, his bluffing was going to be called, and he'd have nothing to show for it.

Ringing.

Gilbert could hear the muffled answer.

"_Allo?_"

Eduard opened his mouth to speak, and actually choked. He lost his voice, sitting there on the bed, and Gilbert was fairly certain that Eduard had looked pretty terrified for a second.

Eduard had been the definition of brave until that point.

Who was this woman?

Gilbert leaned forward, as Eduard sat frozen, and hit the speaker button. The voice on the other end was distant. Garbled. Even Gilbert shuddered a little as another coo crackled over the speaker, although he didn't know who she was or why Eduard was so scared of her.

Somethin' about that voice.

_ "Allo?"_

Eduard found words at last, and broke the silence.

"Hello, Natalia."

A short silence.

Eduard, hands trembling, seemed to be gathering his strength, and then he spoke again.

"Do you remember me?"

Another silence, and then the woman offered her guess.

_ "Eduard."_

Eduard smiled, a bit wanly.

"That's right! That's good. You remember. I thought maybe you'd forgotten me."

_ "Why no. You weren't German, though, were you? Forgive me if I'm wrong; you can't really expect me to keep up with _all _of you."_

"Sorry," Eduard said, abruptly. "I've got a friend here that wants in on the conversation."

A vague, foggy explanation, but something was going on between them that Gilbert couldn't see, because she seemed to understand right off.

_"You know, it's funny_," she finally purred. "_I just met a German, not too long ago."_

Gilbert sprang forward, mouth open and ready to start asking questions, but Eduard held up a hand, and stopped him short.

"Did you? I'm interested in him. Thought you were, too. How about we help each other a little bit? I'm sure that he didn't make a better impression on you than I did."

_ "Oh, but he did. If you're referring to Colonel Müller, at any rate. I think you were only a sergeant, weren't you? Didn't even make it higher than Toris. We've gone beyond petty officers, Eduard. We're almost up into the top ranks now. We'll have a new general, soon."_

A flash of something unpleasant across Eduard's face as he sat up straighter and suddenly quite alert.

Toris.

Gilbert remembered that name somehow, someway.

The distant sound of a sewer grate sliding shut.

Her voice came out from the phone, so many miles away and yet close enough to make Gilbert scoot away from the phone as if her damn fingers would start poking through the speaker-holes.

_ "You know! When you ran, Ivan was so angry that he put poor Toris in the hospital for two weeks. I sent him flowers, in your stead. Poor thing. The way you left him behind like that."_

Eduard looked so damn pale all of a sudden.

A breath away from illness.

That story of Eduard's came back to the surface of Gilbert's mind. Toris and Eduard. The brother Eduard had abandoned once. The only reason Eduard was helping Gilbert now.

Eduard recovered and managed a scoff, and asked, "Were they poison flowers, Natalia?"

Across the desolate lands, Gilbert could only imagine that this woman was smiling.

_ "Not all of them."_

Eduard's smile stood strong.

"Kinder than I recall!"

It became suddenly obvious to Gilbert that the pulse in Eduard's neck was hammering so fiercely that it was visible. He looked perfectly composed, but this woman, this unassuming woman who spoke so calmly, terrified him.

Gilbert kept his hands clenched to keep them still.

Was it her that scared him or was it that her voice was the first glimpse of really lay in wait for him across the snow?

_ "Why are you calling? What do you want?"_

"Help."

_ "Getting to _him_?"_

Eduard nodded—how stupid, not like she could see him, but maybe she knew somehow, all the same.

_ "What's in it for me?"_

"Anything!" Gilbert barked out, without thinking, and Eduard reached out and pinched his arm to silence him.

Before she could speak, Eduard tried to regain control of the situation with a quick, "How about getting rid of a competitor? I know you. Isn't that the best thing you can get out of this? Getting rid of someone?"

Silence.

Competitor?

Gilbert fidgeted non the bed, irritable and agitated, and wished more than anything that Eduard would just tell him the goddamn truth about everything.

Just let him know what he was getting himself into.

Whether or not she accepted this deal, or whether she would ask for more later was yet to be seen.

For now, though, she seemed to agree.

_ "You call me," _she said, as Gilbert's heart hammered away, _"every time you stop somewhere. No matter where. You call me first. I'll help when I can. Don't let him know you're here. No one can help you then. You get _him_ away, though, or we're all dead."_

Eduard's only answer was a cool, "Alright. Alright. Deal."

When the phone clicked, Eduard heaved a great sigh of relief, and turned to Gilbert, looking so pale all of a sudden.

Sick.

"Well," he said, a bit shakily, "That went better than I thought! She must really hate your brother."

"That's good, right?"

Eduard just smiled at him, thinly, and the look on his face was strange.

As if, somehow, that _wasn't _good. As if he wanted to say, 'No, we're in deep shit.'

Whatever he was thinking, Eduard was afraid to tell him. In a way, Gilbert was glad, because he was afraid to know.

They sat on their beds, avoided looking at each other, and even Ludwig was quiet.

Wasn't long before Eduard started drinking again.

The last thing Eduard said, before he went to sleep, was, "I hope you spent as much time with him as you could."

A churn of nausea. Guilt.

He hadn't.

He had been so absorbed in himself that most opportunities to be with Ludwig had been blown off for other ventures.

Living in the moment.

He lived in the moment now more than ever, because thinking too far ahead was pointless when he could die any damn day.

And he felt _sick _now, because the assumed end of Eduard's sentence was, 'Because it's lookin' good that you might not ever see him again.'

Roderich had been right about him all along.

Useless.

Ludwig sat still and silent on the floor, and all night long, the woman's voice played over and over in Gilbert's head.

It was around then that he started losing hope.

Ludwig was quiet.

In the morning, before Eduard awoke, he slunk outside into the street and grabbed hold of a payphone, and called Roderich for the first time since he and Eduard had met. Should have called sooner.

He didn't really have anything important to say, but speaking to Roderich made him feel real.

Like he wasn't in a different world.

Roderich, mutual hatred aside, still made him feel safer.

Even Roderich didn't seem to have the energy anymore to bitch at him, and instead asked,_ "How are you?"_

Gilbert's answer was short and simple.

"Bad."

_"How's it look?"_

"...bad."

This time Roderich had no encouragement to offer, and hung up the phone after a few more forced words.

His farewell was a rather dreary, "_Call again soon, Gilbert. Don't stop calling unless you die. But don't... That is... Oh. Maybe you should just come back. Sometimes, I think Ludwig might already be dead."_

No. Not dead. He'd have known, somehow, if Ludwig had died. Wouldn't he have felt something?

Not dead, but maybe gone, in a way.

Couldn't say exactly what it was, but Gilbert put down the phone, and felt his own path steadily winding downwards.

Sometimes, he felt like he was drowning.

Even Roderich sensed it, so far away.

The Ludwig that stood at his side now always just smiled, and offered nothing else.

Berlin was gone.


End file.
